"Impossible. The American satellites record everything in Iraq."
"Enough, Yasir—I want to talk to Robert. If it's not possible, then do the impossible. Either find a way for us to talk or I'll place calls to them directly, to their offices. We must discuss the plan they sent me. They've made some absurd decisions, and if we carry out the operation as they've designed it, it will be a disaster. I will be in command, as always. I won't have them sending someone else to take over the lead. The photographs I've sent them should make that perfectly clear."
"No one wants to remove you from anything," the Egyptian responded. "They know you are not well, and they are sending in reinforcements."
"Don't start underestimating me now, Yasir—you don't want to make the same mistake they have."
"You should consider, too, sir, that they may be angry about Clara going to Rome and revealing your involvement with the Bible of Clay."
"That was none of their business. Tell them that I intend to speak directly to them, whether they like it or not. What I want is to know exactly what's going to happen and when. We have to organize this very, very carefully. I want one of Paul Dukais' men to report to me for instructions. Paul's people will do as I tell them, when I tell them, where I tell them. Otherwise I promise you that no one will do anything, unless they want a private war as well as a public one."
"What's wrong with you, Alfred? I think you're going mad."
The old man got up, walked over to his longtime lieutenant, and slapped him.
"Get out, and do as you're told."
Yasir's black eyes flashed with hatred. They had known each other for a lifetime, but he would never forgive Alfred for this affront. He left the office without looking back, still feeling the sting of the old man's hand on his cheek.
Alfred found Clara sitting alone at the table in the garden, in the shade of the palm trees, listening to the water dribble down the fountain. She stood and gave her grandfather a light kiss on the cheek.
"Sit down, Clara. I'm glad we're alone; we have to talk."
Fatima finished setting out several serving dishes of salad and rice to accompany the meat, then retired to the kitchen.
"What are you planning to do?" Tannenberg asked.
"Do about what?"
"Ahmed is leaving. What are you going to do?" "I'm staying in Iraq. This is my country; my life is here. The Yellow House is my house. I have no desire to become an exile."
"If Saddam falls, it will be hard. We will have to leave the country. We can't stay here when the Americans come." "Will they come?"
"I've just received a report confirming that the decision has been made. I'd hoped this wouldn't happen; I thought that Bush was just an uncouth bully, but apparently the preparations for war are under way. We should start getting ready. I'm leaving for Cairo; I have to organize some things and speak to some friends there."
"You're a businessman. It's true, you've been close to Saddam, but no more so than many others. They can't take reprisals against every Iraqi who's managed to prosper under this regime."
"If they come, they'll do as they please. A victor can do whatever he wants."
"So why are we starting this excavation?"
"Because we either find the Bible of Clay now or lose it forever. It's our last chance. I never imagined that Shamas had returned to Ur." "To Safran, actually."
"Practically the same thing—they're right next to each other. The patriarchs were nomads; they wandered around the desert with their flocks and settled temporarily in one spot or another. It wouldn't be the first time they'd come to Haran or gone back to Ur. But I always thought that the Bible of Clay would be in Haran or Palestine, since Abraham was on his way to Canaan."
Clara, for once, was unable to focus on ancient history. "When are you leaving for Cairo?"
"Early tomorrow morning."
"I'm going to Safran ahead of Ahmed."
"What will he do?" Alfred's tone was neutral.
"He needs some excuse for leaving Iraq. Can you help him?"
"No. I won't help him. We have some business to finish up. When we do, he can go anywhere he likes. But he has to meet his responsibilities first—he can't leave until he's done what he signed up to do. I need his help to close a deal."
"I thought you wanted him to leave as soon as possible."
"I've changed my mind."
"Then you'll have to talk to him. We've agreed that he's moving out of the Yellow House and going to his sister's."
"I don't care where he lives, as long as he stays in Iraq until the Americans arrive."
"He won't want to do that."
"But he will."
"Don't threaten him, Grandfather!"
"I'm not threatening him. We are men of business. He can't just run off now. Not now. Your husband has earned a lot of money, thanks to me. But he needs to fulfill his end of the bargain."
"And you won't help him if he doesn't want to stay?"
"No, I won't, not even for you, Clara. I won't allow Ahmed to ruin a lifetime's work."
"I want to know what it is that only he can do."
"I've never discussed my business dealings with you, and I'm not going to start now. When you see Ahmed, tell him I want to talk to him."
"He's coming by tonight for some things." "Tell him not to leave without seeing me."
"He doesn't trust us."
George Wagner was using the flat tone of voice that signaled an oncoming storm to those who knew him. And Enrique Gomez Thomson knew him very well. Even though they were talking by phone, thousands of miles apart, he could still picture the rictus of tension at the corners of his friend's mouth and the tic in his right eyelid.
"He thinks we set up that debacle with the Italians," Enrique replied. "The photographs made that clear enough."
"Yes, and what's worse is that we don't know who actually did. Yasir says Alfred insists on talking to all of us by telephone and that there won't be any operation unless he heads it. He wants Dukais to send one of his men to go over how the operation will be run, and he's threatening to pull the plug unless we do things his way."
"He knows the lay of the land, George—he's right about that. It would be crazy to put the whole operation in Dukais' hands. Without Alfred, it can't be done."
"Maybe. But he's not going to threaten us or impose his own conditions."
"We don't want the Bible of Clay going to some museum, and he wants it for his granddaughter—okay, there's a difference of opinion there. But we can't let everything else fall apart just because of Alfred's stubbornness about who's going to be the boss. We're at a stalemate with him: If he's willing to go ahead with us, we should do it. We can't run the risk of setting off a war between us. We've come this far because we've always performed like an orchestra, everybody playing his part."
"Until Alfred decided to change the score."
"Let's not exaggerate, George—we've got to understand that this whole Bible of Clay thing is for his granddaughter." "That stupid bitch."
"She's not stupid; she's his granddaughter. You don't understand because you don't have a family."
"We're family—us, just us. Or have you forgotten that, Enrique?"
Enrique didn't say anything for a moment as he thought of Rocio, his son Jose, his grandchildren. "George, some of us do have families of our own, and we have an obligation to them."
"You'd sacrifice us for that family of yours?"
"Don't ask me that question—there's no way to answer it. I love my family, and as for you three . . . You're my arms, my eyes, my legs—I can't even describe what the four of us are. So let's not act like children asking who loves you more, Daddy or Mommy. Alfred loves his granddaughter, and that's made him vulnerable. He wants to give her the Bible of Clay, but it's not his to give. It belongs to us as much as it does him. There's no sense making a federal case of this right now; let's trust him, as we always have, to carry out the overall operation. If we declare war on him, he'll fight, and we'll destroy ourselve
s in the process."
"He can't hurt us."
"Oh, yes, he can, George, and you know it." "So what do you want to do?"
"I say we organize two operations. First, the one we've been planning, with Alfred at the helm. The other, to snatch the Bible of Clay. We do that one on the sly."
"That's what I've been saying from the beginning. Paul has found two men to infiltrate Picot's team."
"Great—that's what we need, somebody who won't let Alfred's granddaughter out of his sight. Someone who can secure the Bible, if they find it. Nobody has to be hurt."
"Do you think this girl will let somebody just grab the Bible? You think Alfred hasn't organized things to make sure we can't get it?"
"Oh, I'm sure he'll have foreseen that possibility—he knows us. But we know him too. So we'll both be playing a little cat-and-mouse game. But if the men Paul sends are any good, they'll be able to get their hands on the Bible and leave before anyone realizes it's gone."
"You know any smart gorillas?"
"There have to be one or two, George. Anyway, let's make force the last option—not the first."
"You know how things are on the ground, we won't be there to
evaluate the situation. It'll be the gorillas who decide. They could hurt the girl."
"We'll give them clear instructions not to do that their first day on the job, okay?"
"I'll check with Frank, and if he's on board, we'll do it. He may agree with you; he has a family too."
"And tell Dukais to send somebody sharp to talk to Alfred. It's going to be delicate."
"I know."
"So let's do this right. I don't want anything to happen to Alfred, you understand, George? I don't want anything to happen to him. We'll get the Bible of Clay—he knows it doesn't belong to him, and he'll understand even if he tries to stop us. We'll do what's necessary— but only what's necessary."
18
yasir was surprised that a man as vulgar as dukais
could be so important.
Busily chewing gum, Dukais had taken off his shoes and put his feet up on his desk, oblivious to the fact that his socks were stuck to his skin by rank sweat.
Yasir took a seat in the chair in front of the desk and tried to ignore the man's crudeness. He was tired and already stressed by two days in Washington. Anti-Arab xenophobia was running rampant, and he'd hardly left his hotel.
Yasir was a businessman; his religion was money. But when he visited the United States, a certain nationalism awakened in him. He couldn't bear the Americans' air of superiority, their disdain for those they deemed "underdeveloped."
His country was poor or, more accurately, had been unrelentingly impoverished by a series of corrupt regimes propped up by world powers who considered the globe little more than a chessboard for their opposing interests. Egypt had been under Soviet influence, and now it was under America's. And as his son Abu said, "Where has that gotten us? They sell us what we don't need for a fortune and we're permanently in debt."
He didn't understand why his son, who had had everything, was so
entranced with the fanatics who thought the solution to every problem lay in Islam. Before Yasir had boarded the plane for Washington, they'd had an argument about the beard Abu recently grew. For many young Egyptians, it had become a symbol of rebellion. But no matter how much Yasir debated his son's radicalism, he recognized that Abu was right on several counts.
"Alfred will lead the operation," Dukais now acknowledged. "That'll be best. He knows Iraq and we don't. When you go back to Cairo, one of my men will escort you. Mike Fernandez, a former Green Beret colonel. He's Hispanic, dark-skinned, so he won't stand out too much. He also speaks a little Arabic. He'll be in charge of the men, so he needs to meet Alfred, to be briefed on how Alfred wants things done. He knows how to kill and he knows how to think. He left the army because I pay better, a lot better."
Dukais laughed as he opened a silver box and took out a cigar. He offered one to Yasir, who shook his head quietly.
"The only places I can smoke are my offices, here and in New York. It's against the law in restaurants, and it makes my wife hysterical. One of these days I'm going to move in here permanently."
Yasir knew that any time wasted on small talk was more time he'd be forced to spend in this rank office. "Alfred is very ill," he said. "I don't know how long he has to live."
"Is your brother-in-law still his doctor?"
"My brother-in-law is the chief resident of the hospital in Cairo where they're treating his tumor. They operated and took out part of his liver, but the last sonograms and CT scans have shown small nodules. His liver is covered with tumors. He's definitely dying."
"Will he last six months?"
"My brother-in-law says he might, but he's not sure. Alfred doesn't complain, and he's going on with his life as normally as possible. He knows that he's going to die and . . ."
"And?"
"And except for his granddaughter, nothing matters to him."
"Which means he's a desperate man. And that's bad—if you're afraid of nothing, you're capable of anything," Dukais muttered.
"It's not enough for Alfred to leave his granddaughter a pile of money. He wants her to find this Bible of Clay you've all been looking for. He says that will be his legacy to her."
Paul Dukais might be oblivious to the most elementary social graces, but he was extremely intelligent. That's why he'd gotten to the top. And that was why he had no trouble understanding why Alfred was acting the way he was acting.
"Clara doesn't know the first thing about him," Dukais said, "but when he dies she'll have to face reality, and the only way Alfred can keep her from being stigmatized is to make her an archaeologist with an international reputation. Which is why they need this Picot—to give her the patina of respectability that Alfred can't. If they find this thing during an internationally sponsored archaeological expedition, it will be a horse of an entirely different color." Paul took a drag from his cigar. "I've always been surprised that she doesn't know anything, Yasir."
"Clara is very intelligent, but she refuses to face anything that would taint her relationship with her grandfather—she sees no evil, hears no evil. But I wouldn't underestimate her."
"I have a file on her—what she likes, what she doesn't like, her time in San Francisco, her grades in school—but none of that lets you know a person."
Yasir was pleasantly surprised by Dukais' reflection. It struck him that the president of Planet Security wasn't as simpleminded as he appeared to be.
"Give me a few hours to talk to some friends and prepare a report for you to take to Alfred. I'll tell Mike Fernandez to call you this afternoon, so you two can meet and start getting to know each other. It'd be good, too, if you could prepare him some for what he's going to find over there."
"He's never been there?"
"Sure, in the Gulf War. But that wasn't a war, it was a cakewalk. A chance to try out a few new toys the Pentagon bought itself with taxpayer money. He's been in Egypt too, but just on vacation, seeing the pyramids, you know."
When Yasir left, Dukais called Robert Brown, but he wasn't in his office. His secretary said he could be reached on his cell phone; he was having lunch with a group of university presidents to discuss a series of cultural activities for the following year.
Dukais decided he'd call him later.
Fabian was nervous. He was leaving early for Iraq to scout the site, and although he'd been eager to get on the ground there, he'd been working eighteen-hour days, trying to organize all the forward operations and obtain visas for the various stops he had to make on the way.
They'd managed to put together a team of twenty people. It wasn't enough, but it was all the venturesome souls they'd been able to persuade to risk their necks for an excavation on the eve of war. He himself acknowledged that it was madness, but it was a madness that relieved the monotony of his academic routine.
The advance arrangements, such as they were, seemed almost in place
, save for a few loose ends. He'd received a call from Magda, one of his graduate students, who'd be going with them for just a couple of months, until Christmas. She wanted Fabian to talk to another student, the friend of a friend of hers, who might be willing to go. He was Bosnian, she said, a teacher, and he'd come to Madrid to study. He didn't have a dime, so when he'd heard that some crazy people were going off to Iraq and that the job paid pretty well, he'd asked if they needed an extra hand or two—he was willing to do whatever they needed.
But what could a young teacher who'd drifted into Madrid to study Spanish do for the expedition? Fabian had made no promises; he'd have to talk to Picot. Plus, Picot had told him there was already a Croatian on the expedition's team, who'd been recommended by a professor friend in Germany; apparently, the young man had studied computer science. "A survivor of the war who hates violence," Picot had been told, but one who had no compunctions about going to a country at war in order to earn some extra money—Berlin was a very expensive place to live.
Having a computer specialist on the team was a good idea. He could categorize their finds and perform other necessary data-processing work. So Picot had brought the Croatian aboard. Now, bringing in a Bosnian might be too much. The Bosnians and Croatians had been kil-lling each other until just months ago, and the last thing they needed on the expedition was that kind of tension. Anyway, he asked himself, what good would a teacher be?
Picot entered Fabian's apartment, whistling. Clearly, his spirits were high.
"Hello! Anybody home?"
"I'm in my office!" Fabian called out.