Abram was filled with dread and uneasiness once again. God had spoken to him, he'd heard Him clearly, he could still feel the force of the message vibrating within him. He knew that he must now begin his march to the land of Canaan, as the Lord bade him. Even before leaving Ur, God had marked out the destination of his wanderings, which Abram had put off because Terah was old and wished to repose in Haran, the land of his fathers.
Days and nights, then weeks, then months had passed, and the tribe had not moved from Haran, where they found good pastures and a prosperous city in which to trade. They had settled here as Terah had wished.
But now the day to follow the commandment that God had given him to journey on to Canaan had come, and Abram's heart was heavy, for he knew that by obeying God, he would displease Terah.
His old father, with his eyes cloudy and his legs unsteady, half-slept most of the day, his mind lost in recollections of things past and fearful predictions of things to come. How was Abram going to tell him that they had to move on? Grief pressed upon his chest, and tears flowed from his eyes unbidden. He loved his father, who had been his guide throughout his life. He had learned everything he knew from Terah, and by watching his dexterous hands creating statues he had seen that hands do not create a God.
Terah believed in the Lord, and he had been able to plant the love of God in the rest of the tribe, though still today its people worshipped the highly adorned figures of clay upon their altars and in their sanctuaries.
Abram walked quickly. He had to go to his father's house, where Sarai would be waiting, still awake though the sun had set hours ago. He knew that Terah would be waiting for him as well. His father called out for him in anguish when he was not near.
By the time he came near Haran, Terah had fallen into a stupor from which no one had been able to rouse him, and the only word he spoke was the name of his son, Abram.
When Abram entered the house, he sent the women out of his father's room and asked his brother Nahor to let him sit alone with the old man. Nahor, exhausted from his long vigil, went outside to breathe the cool air of the night while Abram sat with Terah.
Those who remained inside heard the soft murmuring of Abram's voice, although they also thought they could hear the weary voice of the old man.
Dawn brought the death of Terah. Sarai's slave made her way to the tent of Jadin, who hurried to console the family of the tribe's deceased patriarch. There he found Abram and his brother Nahor and the two men's wives, Sarai and Milcah, and his nephew Lot.
The women were crying and tearing at their hair, while the men were rendered mute with grief and desolation.
Jadin took charge of the situation and sent for his wife, so that with the other women they might cleanse the body of Terah and prepare it for burial in the land of Haran.
Terah had died in the place he loved above all others, for in Haran, though they had wandered with their flocks and herds in search of grain and pasture, almost all of his ancestors had been born.
The tribe waited the designated time before burying Terah's body in the dry, cracked ground of the Mesopotamian summer. Grief marked Abram's face; now it fell upon him to lead the tribe, into a land where there were green pastures and they could live without fear. A land promised his people by God.
"We will go to Canaan," he announced to them. "We must make preparations to depart."
The men discussed the route they should follow. Some preferred to settle in Haran forever, while others proposed returning to Ur, but most pledged to follow Abram wherever the road took them.
Jadin met with his kinsman Abram, who was now the leader of the tribe.
"Abram, we will not be going with you to Canaan." "I know."
"You know? How can you know, when until yesterday I did not know myself?"
"I could read in the faces of your family that you would not be going with me. Shamas dreams of returning to Ur; your wife yearns for
that city, where her family remained; and even you prefer to lead your tribe back to Ur in search of pasture and grain with which to nourish them. I have nothing to reproach you for. I understand your decision, and I am happy for Shamas especially."
"Indeed, the listlessness you read in my son's eyes has brought me to this decision."
"Shamas is called to his writings. He will be a good scribe, a wise, just man. It is not his destiny to remain a shepherd."
"When will you leave with the tribe?"
"Not before one moon has passed. I have many things to do, and I cannot leave until I have completed the story I am telling Shamas. He must pass it down to our people who remain in Ur and all those he meets throughout his life: who we are, where we came from, and the will of God. Only that which is written is fated to endure, and before I leave I want Shamas to write down all that I tell him."
"Very well. I will tell my son to come to you, and I will prepare enough tablets for him so that he can preserve all that you tell him."
22
"madam! madam!"
The cries of one of the men in her escort woke Clara from her lethargy. "What is it, AH?"
"It's late, Ms. Tannenberg, and the leader of the village is angry. The women are waiting for you to have dinner." "All right, I'll be there in just a second."
She got up, brushing the yellow dust off her clothes and skin. She really didn't feel like talking to anybody, much less the chief of the village and his family. Soon the site would be swarming with people, filled with activity, and she had wanted to enjoy the solitude a while longer.
She'd been imagining Shamas the scribe—her mind had given him a face, and she could almost hear the sound of his voice, sense his footsteps in this place.
He must have been an apprentice—that would explain the imprecise marks of his characters—but he also seemed to be gifted somehow, close to the patriarch Abraham, close enough to have been trusted to document his story of creation.
When Clara arrived at the village leader's house, he was waiting for her at the door with a glacial smile that she chose to ignore. She praised
the food she was served, though, and ate heartily, then retired to a room with a narrow bed set next to the village leader's eldest daughter's. She fell deeply asleep instantly, as she hadn't since Ahmed left the Yellow House.
Alfred Tannenberg's home in Cairo was located in Heliopolis, the residential area that housed Egypt's diplomats and its government's highest officials. The windows of his study looked out onto a row of trees and several men guarding the perimeter of the property.
Alfred had grown even more distrustful with age. Now he suspected his old friends, the men he once would have given his life for, of betrayal.
Why was he so determined to keep the Bible of Clay? He had offered his associates almost everything he owned for those tablets. It was not a question of money, though; he had enough money to live out the rest of his days very comfortably and to ensure Clara's future. What he most wanted for Clara was something money couldn't buy— respectability—because the world he'd lived in was beginning to crumble. In fact, the reports he had been receiving from George Wagner for over a year now left no room for doubt. Alfred Tannenberg was a monster, and that would be his legacy to his granddaughter, no matter how wealthy he was. No, he could give Clara respectability only with the Bible of Clay. But George refused to agree to that, and although Frankie and Enrique had families, they didn't seem to understand either.
He was alone, alone against them all, and with one other very inconvenient fact against him: the short time he had to live.
He pored over the doctor's report. They wanted to operate on him again, take out the tumor that was destroying his liver. But he had made his decision: He would never again enter the operating room, much less when, according to the report, there was no guarantee of the outcome. He could actually die on the operating table if his heart gave out. And lately, attacks of tachycardia and high blood pressure had been further undermining his health. His only goal now was to live long enough to allow Clara t
o excavate in Safran before the Americans started bombing.
A servant knocked lighdy at the door and announced the arrival of Yasir and another man, Mike Fernandez. Alfred had been expecting them and walked to the door of his office to greet them. Yasir bowed his head with a slight smile. Alfred knew he had made a permanent enemy when he had slapped Yasir during their last encounter, and that the man would betray him at the slightest opportunity—as soon as their business deal had concluded. But he had no intention of apologizing; after such an insult, there wasn't any use. He would keep his eyes open and block the blow before the other man raised his hand.
Alfred evaluated Mike Fernandez as they shook hands. Mike's firm handshake belied the look of fear in his eyes, as if he was in the presence of a truly evil man. Not that Fernandez was any choirboy himself; according to what Alfred heard, he'd worked for a long time under Dukais, on several more-than-questionable missions. But despite Mike's reputation, Alfred knew that he could still tell the difference between good and evil. Could he sense, though, which nature held more sway in Alfred's mind?
They sat around a low table while a servant came in with a tray of ice water and soft drinks and set it down. Once he left, Alfred turned immediately to Fernandez.
"What's your plan?"
"I'd like to take a look at the Kuwaiti-Iraqi border and points along the Jordanian and Turkish borders. I need to know what type of infrastructure we have in place at potential staging areas and especially what there is in the way of escape routes. I think we can get a good cover from a company that exports cotton, giant bales of cotton, from Egypt to Europe."
"What else?" the old man asked, his voice flat and cold.
"Whatever you want to tell me. You're directing the operation. I'll be on the ground; that's why I want to see what I'll have to be moving through."
"I'll tell you the entry and exit points my men will be using. We've been moving in and out of Iraq for years under the radar of every government in the Middle East. We know the terrain like the palm of our hand. You'll be in charge of the men, but on the ground my men will be in command, and they'll be the ones crossing the borders."
"That's not what we agreed on."
"What we agreed on was getting in and out in as little time as possible without being detected. I can tell from a mile away that you're not Iraqi, and I suspect that will be true of the others Paul is sending. If you're caught, the entire operation will be blown. My people blend in—you'd be as obvious as George Bush. We'll position your men in strategic locations to link up with mine. As for that cotton-export company, I'm very familiar with it: It's mine. But it's not right for this job. We need our friends in Washington to let us travel on their military transport planes to their bases in Kuwait and Turkey—they make stopovers in Europe. Once they're there, we'll see to the rest. Each of us must move on our own home ground."
"And you decide what the home ground of each of us is?"
"You know something? When you travel through the desert, the Bedouins always surprise you. You're convinced you're all alone out there, and all of a sudden you look up and they're there. How did they get there, how long have they been following you? That's something you'll never know. They're part of the sand. . . . You can be spotted from a mile away, but you wouldn't see them if you were five yards from them."
"Are your men Bedouins?"
"My men were born here, in these sands, and they are invisible. This is my territory, and I will not agree to any changes in the way we operate. Or have they gone mad in Washington?"
"No, they haven't gone mad, they just want some control of the operation. I'll speak with Dukais."
"There's the telephone."
Mike Fernandez didn't even get up. He had forced the situation to test the parameters and because he didn't want to be just another extra in the old man's movie. But Dukais' orders had been clear: Do exactly what Alfred said.
"I'll call him later," said Fernandez, surprised, despite all he had heard, at the old man's toughness.
For the next hour, Tannenberg gave him a lesson in military strategy and tactics and outlined how the two teams would rendezvous. He unrolled a map and showed him where the support teams were to be positioned and how they were to move relative to the American bases in Kuwait and Turkey. He even showed him an alternative route through Egypt, just in case.
"And where will your men be, Mr. Tannenberg?"
"That's not your business. Telling you would be like putting an announcement on the Internet."
"You don't trust me?"
"I don't trust anybody. I've told you what you need to know." "Okay, Mr. Tannenberg—I see that working with you is not going to be easy."
"You're mistaken, Mr. Fernandez; it's very easy. I simply expect every man to know what he's supposed to do. You do your part, I'll do mine, and that's it. This isn't a fishing trip where there'll be a lot of bonding, as you Americans call it—so there's no need for you to tell me how your superiors are going to convince the boys in the Pentagon to lend us their planes or for me to share the details of things on my end. But I will tell you how many men you need."
"You're going to tell me?" Fernandez asked sarcastically.
"Yes, I am. Your men will be escorted by some of mine, to ensure that everything goes according to plan." "And how many men should I bring?"
"No more than twenty, and if possible, they should speak something besides English." "Like Arabic?" "Like Arabic."
"I'm not sure we can do that. ..." "Try."
"I'll tell Mr. Dukais."
"He already knows what the men for this mission need to be like, which is why he chose you."
As they came down the steps of the plane, they were hit by the dry heat of the desert. Marta Gomez smiled happily. She loved the Middle East. Fabian felt as though he was having trouble breathing, and he quickened his steps toward the Amman air terminal.
They were standing in front of the luggage carousel waiting for their baggage when a tall, dark-skinned man walked up to them.
"SenorTudela?"
"Yes?"
The man put out his hand and took Fabian's in a firm, decisive grip. "I'm Ayed Sahadi. Ahmed Husseini sent me," he said in perfect Spanish.
It was no surprise at all to Marta that Sahadi hadn't greeted her, and much to the man's surprise, she put out her hand. "I'm Professor Gomez. How are you?"
"Welcome, Professor," Sahadi said, bowing slightly as he shook Marta's hand.
"Sefiora Tannenberg didn't come?" Marta asked.
"No, Sefiora Tannenberg is waiting for you in Safran. But first we have to get everything out of customs. Give me your luggage receipts and I'll see that your bags and boxes are taken to the vans."
"Are we going directly to Safran?" Fabian asked.
"No. We've reserved a room for you in the Amman Marriott so you can rest tonight. Tomorrow we'll cross the border into Iraq and drive on to Baghdad, and from there a helicopter will take us to Safran. Within two days you will meet Sefiora Tannenberg," Sahadi answered.
They completed all the paperwork in customs without the slightest problem; Sahadi's presence seemed to ensure that the officials let them through smoothly. They watched as the containers were loaded into three vans that were waiting for them in the airport loading zone, and then they were driven to the hotel. Sahadi told them he'd be back to take them to dinner; in the meantime, they could rest if they wanted. The next day they would be leaving at sunrise, around five.
"So how'd you like that guy?" Fabian asked Marta as they had a drink in the bar.
"Nice. Efficient."
"He seemed to notice only me."
"Sure—you're a man; he's acculturated to deal with you. It'll pass." "I was surprised you didn't say anything."
"He didn't mean anything by it. It's a product of his upbringing. Not that you Spanish men are any different," she laughed.
"Well, we're being retooled. We've made a huge effort to live up to you girls—after all, you're the new superheroes."
"Yes—everybody knows that Nietzsche was thinking about his sister when he developed his theory of the superman! But seriously, I'm used to that happening when I come to the Middle East for work. Within a few days he'll give in to the evidence and realize that I'm the boss."
"Oh, so now I've been the victim of a coup d'etat—thanks for telling me."
They joked for a while as they sipped at their whiskeys and waited for Sahadi. At eight-thirty he appeared as promised.
Not bad, thought Marta, looking with a critical eye as he came toward them through the bar, wearing a well-cut navy-blue suit and an elephant-print Hermes tie.
"The tie is a bit old-fashioned, but it's elegant," Marta said sotto voce to Fabian as she tried to avoid letting the slightest smile reveal her thoughts to this stiff man who had no idea what he was in for with these two foreigners.
He took them to a restaurant in a residential area of Amman where only Westerners lived. Europeans passing through the city shared tables with Jordanian businessmen and politicians.
Fabian and Marta let Sahadi order for them, and they never let on that they spoke Arabic.
"I'm curious, do you work for Sefiora Tannenberg?" Marta asked straight out.
"No, not exactly. I work for her grandfather. I will be in charge of the workers at the excavation site in Safran. As a foreman," Sahadi answered, not without a wiggle of discomfort.
"Is Senor Tannenberg an archaeologist?" Marta went on with her questions, ignoring completely Sahadi's obvious uneasiness. "He is a businessman."
"Ah! I understood that he had spent several years in Haran and found the tablets that have caused such a commotion in the archaeological community," Fabian said.
"I'm sorry, but I really don't know about that. I'm only familiar with Senor Tannenberg's current operations." Sahadi was clearly dodging the question.