The Bible of Clay

by Julia Navarro

  But he couldn't afford to reject her: She was far too valuable. Samira was a direct line to everything that went on in Tannenberg's house: the state of his health, who called him, who visited him, even the rift between Clara and her husband.

  This inexhaustible source of information allowed Ante to send back detailed reports to Planet Security through his intermediary, the village leader's son. He'd been recruited by Yasir, the Egyptian who'd been Alfred Tannenberg's right-hand man before the two had come to hate each other. It was a perfectly unobstructed flow of information: Yasir would send Ante's reports on by further intermediaries whom he'd also hired, and they, in turn, would convey instructions to him from Planet Security.

  Yasir had come into the camp with Ahmed Husseini and had insisted on an accurate report on Tannenberg's health. Neither Yasir nor Ahmed had yet been able to confirm their suspicions that the old man was dying. Dr. Najeb adamantly refused to speak to them about Tannenberg's condition.

  So Plaskic had asked Samira to see him, much to her delight. That night, when the camp was asleep, she'd let him into the house.

  She had told him that if he could slip through the shadows and get around the guards, they could be together. She detailed the routines of the ten men who surrounded the house, five in front and five in back— not long after midnight they got together for an unauthorized cigarette and coffee break. He need only bide his time until then and slip to the back of the house, where there was a little window that opened into a storeroom; she'd leave it open a crack. Once he got in, he could wait until she came to him.

  Ante agreed to the plan, although he had no intention of waiting in the storeroom—he was going straight for the old man.

  To a point, it had all gone according to plan. After Picot finished his meeting with the inner circle of the excavation team, Ante waited for the camp to go dark and silence to fall. It was midnight when he got out of his cot and crept to the back of Tannenberg's house, where he waited half an hour in the darkness before one of the guards at the front came to get the others for coffee. They didn't entirely abandon their posts but stayed at the side of the house, maintaining sightlines from which they thought they could catch anyone who tried to approach the back or front of the house.

  They were wrong. Plaskic managed to get in with no problem at all. Two men were dozing in chairs at each side of Tannenberg's bedroom door. Both of them had a bullet in the brain before they could open their eyes. The silencer had done its job: The only sound was that of the bodies slumping to the floor and one of the folding chairs tipping over.

  Then he pushed the door open. Samira was right. The old servant woman was asleep and never even realized that anybody was in the room.

  Samira took one look at the ski mask he was wearing and the pistol in his hand and went crazy. She thought he was going to kill Tannenberg, and she tried to stop him from getting any closer. Plaskic put his hand over her mouth and told her to keep quiet and not to scream, but she wouldn't listen. He throttled her, but it had been her own fault, he told himself, for being so stupid. If she had just shut up, she'd still be alive.

  The old servant had also decided to become a problem. She jumped up and started to yell, so he smothered her before smacking her a couple of times with the pistol butt. He thought he'd killed her—God knows she'd bled like a stuck pig. But she'd survived somehow. He'd rather she was dead, but it didn't bother him either way. With the mask and the darkness of the room, there was no way she could identify him.

  As instructed, Plaskic had reported in detail on what he'd seen in Tannenberg's room. But this time he didn't write it down; he'd just informed the village leader's son of the old man's condition: hooked up to a monitor with a blood transfusion going in one arm and some kind of clear liquid transfusion in the other.

  The village leader's son had asked Ante straight out if he was the one who killed the nurse and the two guards, but Plaskic hadn't answered, sparking a heated argument. The young man told him the Colonel would probably wind up detaining and even killing every Iraqi in the village—but he also knew well what consequences he himself would surely suffer if he betrayed the Croatian. The full implications of the dangerous game he had gotten himself involved in were written all over his face, and he was becoming increasingly agitated. That was when Lion Doyle had walked in on them.

  The next day, the Colonel was in a fouler mood than usual. Ahmed Husseini was listening to him patiently, desperately trying not to enrage him further. Yasir sat in silence.

  "I'm not leaving here until we find out who did this. He's here, among us, laughing at us. But I'll catch him, and when I do, he'll pray for a quick death."

  Aliya, the new nurse, entered the living room. Clara had sent her to report that her grandfather was ready to see them.

  They found Alfred sitting in a chair, a blanket covering his knees, no transfusion bag in sight. He was all bones, and his face was ghastly pale.

  Beside him sat Clara, smiling slightly. She'd convinced Dr. Najeb to do everything in his power to allow her grandfather to meet with the Colonel in a chair rather than in bed.

  Tannenberg knew he had precious little time. He skipped the niceties and got straight to the point.

  "My friend," he said, addressing the Colonel, "I must ask you a very special favor. I know it won't be easy and that only a man of your caliber can undertake such a task."

  Ahmed Husseini looked at Tannenberg, intrigued, while at the same time taking in the self-assurance that Clara had regained, as though the old man really were going to live forever.

  "Ask me anything; you know that you can always count on me," the Colonel assured him.

  "Professor Picot and his team wish to leave. I understand that; given the circumstances, we can hardly keep them here. Clara will stay behind for a few more days and then join them later to prepare a grand exhibit of the objects and structures they have found here in Safran. It will be an important exhibition, traveling through several European cities. They will even try to take it to the United States, which I'm sure our friend George will facilitate through the Mundo Antiguo Foundation."

  "And what is the favor?" the Colonel asked.

  "I want you to secure the permissions Picot will need to remove from Iraq all the things they have found. I know it won't be easy to convince our beloved Saddam, but you can do it. What is urgent is that you requisition helicopters and trucks so that Picot and his people can leave Iraq as soon as possible with their precious cargo."

  "And how does that benefit us?" the Colonel asked bluntly.

  "It will benefit you, insofar as you will find a half-million dollars in your Swiss account if you do this with the same efficiency you have shown on other occasions."

  "Will you speak with the palace?" the Colonel wanted to know.

  "I already have. Our leader's sons are informed of the matter and are anxiously awaiting our messenger."

  "Then if Baghdad has agreed, I will call my nephew Karim and tell him to set the operation in motion."

  "Clara should leave as soon as possible," said Ahmed.

  "Clara will leave when she sees fit, just as I will. For the moment she will continue the excavation. I want the work to start again tomorrow; we will not abandon the project because of a dead nurse and a few worthless guards," replied Tannenberg angrily.

  "There are pieces that have been found that. . . Well, it's delicate to include them in an exhibition," said Ahmed.

  "You've already sold them?" asked Tannenberg, surprising both Ahmed and Yasir. In fact, Yasir could only stare at the floor.

  "You always mistrust those around you," Ahmed protested.

  "I know those around me. So I think it is quite likely that Robert Brown, the president of the Mundo Antiguo Foundation, has been instructed by George to contact our best clients and announce that there have been important findings in Safran. And that those clients, always eager to add novelties to their collections, have already deposited large sums as an advance against receipt. Am I wrong, Yasir?"<
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  Tannenberg's direct question confounded Yasir, who found that he was suddenly covered in sweat, his white linen shirt sopping wet. He looked over at Ahmed, pleading wordlessly for help, terrified of how Tannenberg would react.

  It was the Colonel, concerned about the way the conversation was going, who spoke.

  "So there is a conflict of interest with your friends in Washington—"

  Tannenberg cut him oft. He lied, knowing that the Colonel would not want to be a part of an internecine war of this sort.

  "No, there is no conflict of interest. If they've decided in Washington to sell some of the pieces we've found, that's fine with me—that's our business, after all. But one thing has nothing to do with the other. The pieces will leave here first to be shown to the world in the traveling exhibition. They will simply not return to Iraq after being delivered to their buyers. The buyers will have to wait a few months, perhaps as long as a year, before they receive them. That won't be anything new for them; they're accustomed to waiting. They will eventually have what they purchased."

  "That's why I enjoy doing business with you, old friend. You have a solution for every problem," the Colonel said, clearly reassured.

  "What have you found out about the killings?" Tannenberg inquired.

  "Nothing, and that worries me. The killer must be a professional; he must also have a good cover, and a better background. But what is most important is that you are alive, my friend," the Colonel declared.

  "I'm alive only because he didn't want to kill me. He never intended to kill me."

  The Colonel had no response. The old man was right; if the intruder had wanted to kill him, he'd had a golden opportunity. But, then, what was he looking for in his room?

  "We will find the man, Alfred; it's just a matter of time. That is why I'd like to detain Picot here a few more days; it may be one of the people in his group."

  "Do it, but see that the clock doesn't run out on us."

  "Understood."

  "I want Picot out of here by mid-March at the latest," Tannenberg ordered.

  "And when will you and Clara be leaving?"

  "I'll make the arrangements for that personally, but we will not be here when the war comes, I assure you," the old man declared.

  The Colonel bade his friend good-bye and left him with Ahmed and Yasir. Clara also left after giving her grandfather a kiss.

  "So you have already betrayed me," Tannenberg said as soon as the door closed behind them.

  Yasir and Ahmed squirmed in their seats.

  "No one has betrayed you," Ahmed managed to say.

  "No? Then how is it that you have already sold pieces from Safran without my knowledge? Shouldn't I have been informed? Do my friends think me so weak that they dare try to deprive me of what's mine?"

  "Please, Alfred!" Yasir protested. "No one wants to do that!"

  "Yasir, you are a traitor; truly you dream of the day you will see me dead. Your hatred has blinded your intelligence."

  Yasir lowered his head and looked out of the corner of his eye at Ahmed, who appeared as nervous as he was.

  "We were going to tell you; that is why we came here. George wanted you to know that he had buyers for some of the pieces."

  "Oh, really? And why didn't you tell me the other night? When were you planning to give me this surprise?"

  "We hardly saw you, and it didn't seem like the right moment. . .," Ahmed protested.

  "You have no guts, Ahmed; you're just an employee, a follower, like Yasir, and you shall remain one for the rest of your days. Men like you don't give orders, you just obey them."

  Ahmed Husseini flushed. He fought back an urge, not for the first time, to slap the old man.

  "All right," Alfred continued. "I'll take this up with George. No doubt he will explain it all to me."

  "That is madness!" Yasir cried. "The spy satellites are monitoring every call, and you know it. If you call George, it'll be like putting it on the front page of the New York TimesV

  "It's George who's broken the rules, not me. Fortunately, you're both idiots, and you've told me what I need to know about my friends and their plans. Now get out; I have work to do."

  The two men left, certain that Alfred Tannenberg would not let the matter rest there, and that the consequences would not be pleasant.

  Alfred ordered Aliya to have the guards fetch Ayed Sahadi. Among his other talents, Sahadi was one of the Colonel's best assassins.

  Ayed was surprised to find Alfred sitting in a chair, as filled with enmity as ever. And he was even more surprised to hear what Alfred wanted him to do. He weighed the problems of the mission the old man was asking him to carry out. Tannenberg had been paying him very well for such work for years. And the money he'd be paid for this job dispelled all his misgivings.

  It was not easy for Clara to convince Picot and Fabian to continue the excavation. But with Marta's help, for which Clara was grateful, she was able to persuade the two men that they had nothing to lose. Gian Maria needed no urging; he was going to stay until the end, as long as Clara remained in Safran.

  Picot called the team together to announce they were to continue packing up equipment, so they'd be ready the minute they were told they could leave Safran. But he surprised the group by also informing them that they'd be working right down to the wire. They were going to keep digging, trying to unearth whatever further secrets they could wrest from the saffron-colored earth.

  There were murmurs of protest, but Picot silenced them immediately, trying, at the same time, to stir up enough morale for the work ahead and the subsequent exhibit.

  Clara returned to her grandfather. Aliya had put him to bed and Dr. Najeb had hooked him up to the monitor again.

  Salam Najeb sat down with Clara and spoke as directly as he knew how: He didn't think Alfred Tannenberg could last a week.

  Clara almost broke down and wept. She was exhausted and feeling overwhelmed by a growing sense of loneliness and isolation. Even Fatima was no longer there to lean on; she was in a hospital bed, more dead than alive. For her grandfather's sake, she called once again upon reserves of fortitude she'd hardly known she had.

  After dinner together, the village leader continued to ply Yasir and Ahmed with sweets in keeping with the laws of hospitality. The two men finally refused any more, but they sat and chatted politely for a while longer, so as not to offend their host by a premature departure. The son offered to walk with them back to the camp, a few hundred yards away.

  They walked along together, slowly and in silence, savoring the fine cigars their host had bestowed upon them. They were only about a third of the way to the camp when three men emerged from the shadows by the side of the path, two on one side and one on the other. Before Ahmed could register what was happening, Yasir shrieked and dropped to the ground. The archaeologist had time only to glimpse the knife handle protruding from Yasir's belly before their assailants grabbed up the Egyptian's body and dragged it with them back into the darkness. Ahmed stared at the village leader's son, who made no effort to conceal the blood covering his hands. Then the archaeologist doubled over and vomited. The young villager wiped the blood off his hands with a handkerchief while he waited for Ahmed to compose himself.

  "Why?" Ahmed asked when he had recovered. "Mr. Tannenberg does not forgive betrayal. He wants you to know that."

  "When is he going to kill me?" Ahmed asked angrily.

  "I do not know," the leader's son replied simply.

  Ahmed was aware of the double game the young man had been playing with Yasir, but he was clearly not prepared to resist Alfred's undeniable power at this critical juncture—and at such close range.

  "Get away from me." Ahmed stumbled on toward the camp, intending to leave behind the young man who had killed Yasir without a moment's hesitation or a trace of emotion, but the killer kept pace with him long enough to deliver a parting message:

  "I have been instructed to tell you that Mr. Tannenberg will be watching you. If you betray him, even if he
is not with us anymore, someone will kill you exactly as I killed Yasir."

  Ayed Sahadi approached the caravan. The camels had not yet been loaded with goods, and they were resting. A tall man greeted him with a warm hug.

  "May Allah protect you."

  "And you," Sahadi responded.

  "Come have a cup of tea with us," the man said.

  "I can't, I have to get back. But I want you to do me a favor."

  "We are friends. You can ask me anything."

  "I know, and I thank you. Here," he said, giving him a small package and an envelope. "Make sure this gets to Kuwait as soon as possible. To the address on the envelope, and may Allah be with you."

  The man pocketed the sheaf of bills that Ayed gave him. There was no need to count them; he knew that the amount would be, as it had always been, satisfactory. Alfred Tannenberg paid well.

  The silence of the dawn was shattered by a scream that awakened the whole camp.

  Picot ran out of his house, followed closely by Fabian, and then they froze. Like them, others had jumped out of bed to see what was happening, and they, too, stood speechless.

  There, in the middle of the camp, tied to a post, was the body of a man. He had been tortured. His arms and legs and face were bruised and battered, there were deep cuts and bloody wounds on his body, and his hands and feet were missing. Most horribly, his eyes had been pulled out and his ears cut off.

  Some of those who'd rushed outdoors couldn't bear to look at the mutilated body and vomited; others just stood there, not knowing what to do, relieved to see the soldiers run up and take charge.

  "That's it. We're finished! They're going to kill us all!" Picot shouted furiously as he spun around and stormed back into the house he shared with Fabian.