The Bible of Clay

  "It would be best to let him rest for a while."

  Fatima asked whether she should take him something to eat, but the doctor only shrugged.

  "In my opinion, he should sleep. He's exhausted. But if you wish, ask him if he's hungry, after Samira comes out. She's giving him an injection."

  "I don't believe I've met you, Doctor," said Clara a bit doubtfully to the tall, thin young man.

  "You don't remember me, but we met in Cairo, in the American Hospital, when your grandfather was first operated on. I am Doctor Aziz's assistant; my name is Salam Najeb."

  "Oh, of course, I'm sorry. . . . Please—tell me how he is, really."

  "He's very ill. He's strong, and his will to live is extraordinary, but the tumor is growing and he doesn't want to risk another operation, and at his age ..."

  "If he were operated on, would it help?" Clara asked, though she feared the response.

  The doctor stood silently, as though searching for the right words to say to her.

  "I don't know. I don't know what we might find if we went in. But as he is now . . ."

  "How much time does he have left?" Clara's voice was barely a whisper. She was struggling to maintain her composure, not to break down and cry, but more importantly, she didn't want her grandfather to overhear the conversation.

  "Allah alone knows that, Madam Tannenberg, but in the opinion of Doctor Aziz—and I agree—no more than three or four months, maybe even fewer."

  The nurse came out and smiled shyly at Clara as she awaited orders from the doctor.

  "Did you give him the injection?" Salam Najeb asked.

  "Yes. He's resting easy now. He said he wanted to speak with Madam Tannenberg."

  Clara stepped between the doctor and nurse into her grandfather's room. Fatima followed her.

  Alfred Tannenberg was lying in the narrow bed; he looked shrunken, almost like a doll, under the sheet.

  "Grandfather," Clara said softly.

  "Ah, Clara!" he breathed, smiling wanly. "Sit down—here, beside me. Fatima, leave us, I want to speak to my granddaughter alone. You can bring me something to eat, though."

  Fatima left the room, her face glowing with the pleasure of serving the old man. If Alfred Tannenberg was hungry, she knew exactly what would make him happy.

  "I'm dying, my darling girl," he said to Clara when they were alone, taking his granddaughter's hands.

  Despair washed over Clara's face, and she struggled to keep from breaking down.

  "I won't have any crying, do you hear? I've never been able to stand people who cried. You're strong, like me—so save your tears; we have to talk."

  "You aren't going to die," Clara managed to stammer.

  "Oh, yes, my dear, I am. I can't prevent it. But I can prevent another death—yours. You're in danger here, and I'm going to do whatever it takes to stop anyone from harming you."

  "Me? Who'd want to hurt me?" Clara asked, bewildered.

  "I haven't been able to find out who was behind those Italians who followed you around Baghdad. But I no longer trust George and Frankie, or Enrique."

  "But, Grandfather, they're your friends! You always said they were like your brothers, more than brothers—that if something happened to you one day, they would take care of me."

  "Yes, and that was true—once. I don't know how long I have to live; Dr. Aziz gives me no more than a few months, so let's not waste time putting off conversations that we need to have. The Bible of Clay will be your ticket to a life far from here. It will be your letter of introduction to another world. We have to find it, because there's not enough money on earth to buy respectability."

  "Respectability? What does that mean?"

  "You know what it means—you've always known, even if we've never talked about it. My business dealings have earned me a certain reputation, and that's not what I want for you. My businesses will die with me, although you'll have enough money to live very comfortably for the rest of your life.

  "I want you to dedicate yourself entirely to archaeology, make a name for yourself—that's what both of us have always wanted, and that's where you'll find your own path.

  "I am respected in this region of the world; I buy and sell anything—I find weapons for terrorists, I satisfy the most extravagant wishes of presidents and princes, I see to it that some of their enemies no longer trouble them. And in return, they do me favors—perhaps overlooking, for example, what some might call the plundering of their countries' artistic and archaeological heritage. I won't bore you with the details; they are what they are, and I'm proud of what I've been able to accomplish. Does that disappoint you?"

  "No, Grandfather, you could never disappoint me. I realized a long time ago that some of your business dealings were . . . delicate. But I don't judge you; I would never do that. I'm sure you've always done what you thought you should do."

  Clara's unconditional loyalty was the only thing that moved the old man. He knew that in his final moments, she would be the only person he could count on. His granddaughter's eyes were without guile, as they had always been, and he knew that she was being honest with him, that she was not hiding anything.

  "In my world, respect has a great deal to do with fear—now I'm dying, and it's no secret. This sort of information has its own way of leaking out. So the vultures are certain to be circling overhead—I feel them; I know they're there. And they will descend upon you when I'm gone. I had thought that Ahmed would take over the business and that he would protect you, but your divorce has forced me to change my plans."

  "Ahmed knows about your business dealings?"

  "Ahmed is instrumental in my business dealings, regardless of how paralyzed he's become by a sudden onset of scruples over the last few months. But he will protect you until you're safely out of Iraq. I've paid him well. And I sent him back to Baghdad for the moment. He can do us more good there."

  Clara felt sick. Her grandfather had just destroyed any possibility of a reconciliation with her husband. She wasn't upset with him; he was simply preparing her for what was to come—and part of that preparation was to inform her that Ahmed was being paid to protect her. Not as her husband, but as one of Alfred's guards.

  "Who could want me dead?"

  "George, Frankie, and Enrique want the Bible of Clay. I'm sure they've infiltrated men into the excavation here, ready to smuggle it out if we find it. It's priceless—or rather, its price is so beyond all measure that they've refused to accept the deal I've offered them."

  "Which is what?"

  "It has to do with an operation that's under way right now—my last one, since I'll not live to see another."

  Clara swallowed hard. "And you think they're capable of sending someone to kill me?"

  "They want the Bible, Clara. They'll try not to harm you if they can get their hands on it easily. But if we don't give it to them, they'll do whatever they have to. I'd do the same thing if I were in their place. So I'm trying to stay ahead of them. Until the Bible appears, you're in no danger, but the moment it's found, your problems will start."

  "And you're sure that these men are here, in Safran?"

  "Absolutely. Ayed Sahadi hasn't uncovered them yet, but he has his eye on several people working around you. They may have infiltrated as workers, suppliers, even people brought in with Picot's team. Killing someone is just a matter of money, and my old friends have more than they need—as I do, my dear, to spend on protecting you."

  The conversation was tearing Clara apart inside, but she refused to show it. Nor would she ever allow her grandfather to think that she was ashamed of him. In fact, deep down she truly felt she had nothing to reproach him for. She had always known that hers was a privileged existence within the powder keg of the Middle East, where only a very select few lived as she and her family did. She belonged to the elite of the elite, which was why she always had an escort of armed men ready to lay down their lives to protect her. Her grandfather paid them a king's ransom to do so. Even as a child she had known that he was a
powerful and implacable man, and she had enjoyed the reverential way she was treated in school and later at the university. No, she'd never been unaware of her grandfather's power, and if she'd asked no questions it was because she didn't want answers that might cause her pain. She had protected herself by a comfortable, if willful, ignorance.

  "What did you offer your friends?"

  "I asked them to let you have the Bible of Clay in exchange for one hundred percent of the profits of the operation that we now have under way. I'm offering them a great deal of money, but they refuse to accept it."

  "The Bible of Clay is an obsession for them too."

  "They are my friends, Clara, and I love them as I love myself, but not more than I love you. We have to find the Bible of Clay before the Americans arrive. The second it's in our hands, you have to leave Iraq. Our alliance with Professor Picot was a stroke of luck—he is a controversial figure, but no one can deny his stature as an archaeologist. So he will be your entree into a new world—but that is only possible if you have the Bible."

  "And what happens if we don't find it?"

  "We will find it. But either way you will have to leave Iraq—go to Cairo. There you will be able to live quietly, or relatively quietly, although I've always dreamed that you would go to Europe and live . . . well, wherever you want: Paris, London, Berlin."

  "You always opposed my going to Europe."

  "Yes, and you should only go there with the Bible of Clay. Otherwise your life in the West would become difficult—and I couldn't bear it if anyone harmed you."

  "Who could do that?"

  "The past, Clara, the past, which sometimes has a way of washing like a tsunami over the present."

  "My past is not important."

  "No, it's not. But it's not your past I'm talking about. Now, tell me how the work is going."

  "It occurred to Gian Maria that Shamas might have kept the Bible of Clay in his house rather than in the temple, so we widened the perimeter of the excavation. Today they discovered the outlines of houses near the temple; we may be able to discern where Shamas himself lived! And in the temple, in addition to the tablets, they've found bullae and calculi and two or three statuettes. So with a little luck, we could find it, Grandfather."

  "This priest, Gian Maria—has he created any problems?"

  "How did you know he's a priest?" Clara laughed then, realizing how absurd the question was. Her grandfather knew everything that happened in the camp—Ayed kept him up to date. And Alfred had other men, men of his own, who would not let a single detail escape them.

  Tannenberg took a sip of water, waiting for Clara's reply. He was tired from his journey, but he was glad he and Clara had talked. They were two of a kind—she hadn't batted an eyelash when he told her that someone was probably going to try to kill her. She hadn't asked any stupid questions or acted the surprised and innocent virgin about the murky world of her family's business.

  "Gian Maria is a good person, very capable. He knows the ancient languages of the region—Akkadian, Hebrew, Aramaic. . . . He's a bit skeptical about whether Abraham dictated his version of the Genesis story to a young scribe—after all, there's no mention of it in the To rah—but he works hard, without a word of complaint. And don't worry, Grandfather, he isn't dangerous."

  "If there's one thing I know, it's that people aren't always what they seem."

  "But Gian Maria is a priest." "Yes, that's true—we've checked."

  Tannenberg closed his eyes, and Clara ran her hand tenderly over his creased forehead and down over his wrinkled cheek. "I think I'd like to sleep for a while." "Yes, do. Tonight Picot would like to meet you." "We'll see. Now go, let me sleep."

  Fatima had moved Dr. Najeb into the house next door and had put the nurse into the room next to Tannenberg's, although she doubted there was anything this Samira could do that she couldn't. Fatima knew what Alfred needed even before he did. A gesture, the slightest movement of his hand, the way he held his body were signs that helped her anticipate what her master was going to ask for. But the doctor had been unbending—Samira had to be near the sick man, to care for him and advise the doctor of any contingency. And the doctor's house was within mere feet of Tannenberg's.

  "What's wrong, my child?" she asked Clara as her mistress came into the kitchen looking for her.

  "He's so sick. . . ."

  "He will live," Fatima assured her. "He will live until you find those tablets. He will not leave you."

  Clara let herself be embraced by her old servant, protectress, and friend, knowing that she could count on her, no matter what she had to face. And what she had to face now could not be more disturbing: Her grandfather had just told her that someone was going to make an attempt on her life.

  "Where are the doctor and nurse?"

  "They're putting together the field hospital."

  "All right, I'm going out to the excavation. I'll be back for dinner."

  Lion Doyle came over with a big grin on his face, his body covered in sand.

  "You've heard the news, then, Clara? They've found the foundations of houses—your colleagues are overjoyed!"

  "Yes, I know—I just wish I could have been here sooner. How's your photography assignment coming?"

  "Better than I'd hoped, thanks. Picot has hired me."

  "Hired you? To do what?"

  "Apparently some archaeological journal asked him to send back field notes on the excavation, illustrated if possible, and he asked me to cover the photo spread. So my trip won't have been in vain, after all."

  Clara, irritated, clenched her teeth. So Picot planned to take all the credit for himself and send off a report to an archaeological journal?

  "Which journal is it?"

  "I think it's called Scientific Archaeology. He told me they publish editions in France, the UK, Germany, Spain, Italy, the United States. . . . Apparently it's a pretty big deal."

  "Yes, it is. You might say that what gets published in Scientific Archaeology exists, and what doesn't isn't worth the sand it's covered by."

  "If you say so—this is all new to me, although I must admit I'm beginning to be infected by all this enthusiasm."

  She left Lion Doyle standing there grinning and walked over to where Marta and Fabian were working.

  They had dug out another sector of the temple, and they'd found a syllabary. It seemed as though the site, faced with the unflagging determination of this hodgepodge group, had at last begun disclosing its deepest mysteries.

  "Where's Picot?" Clara asked.

  "Over there," Marta answered, pointing to a group of workers who looked like they were scrabbling in the ground with their bare hands. Picot was standing among them, bent over to examine what they were uncovering. "He's found traces of ancient Safran's city walls."

  "Clara, I think we're standing on the second level of the temple, a sort of terrace. Could be a ziggurat, but I'm not sure. There are traces of an interior wall here, and we've started to uncover what look like steps, a staircase leading inside," Fabian told her.

  "We're going to need more workers," Marta declared, delighted by the sudden appearance of so much new material.

  "I'll tell Ayed, but I don't think it's going to be easy: The whole country is on a state of alert," Clara replied.

  Yves Picot was so absorbed in what he was doing that he didn't see Clara walk over.

  "I hear it's a great day," she said to him brightly. "Everything seems to be happening at once."

  "You can't imagine. The gods have smiled on us!" he practically shouted. "We've found traces of the outer wall, several courses of blocks, and right up next to them the outlines of buildings, probably houses—come here, look!"

  Picot led her over the yellow sand, pointing out the remains of perfectly stacked blocks that only an expert's eye could identify as the remains of ancient houses.

  "I've brought half the workers over here to clear this zone. I imagine Fabian already told you that they've made wonderful progress on the mound and that the temp
le looks like a ziggurat."

  "Yes, I saw that. . . . I'll work over here."

  "That's fine. Do you think we could possibly find more workers? If we want to clear all this with the time we have left, we're going to need more."

  "Fabian and Marta told me. I'll see what can be done. By the way, the photographer, Lion what's-his-name, told me you'd put him on the payroll."

  "Yes, I asked him to prepare a photo-essay on our excavation." "I didn't know you'd arranged for anybody to publish our work."

  Clara stressed the "our." Picot turned to her, an amused look in his eyes, and then burst out laughing.

  "Come on, Clara, be cool! Nobody's going to steal your thunder here. I know people at Scientific Archaeology and they asked me to keep them informed. Everybody's been curious about the Bible of Clay since you announced its existence in Rome. If we find it, it will be a landmark in the history of archaeology. We'll not only prove that Abraham existed, but also that he revealed the Genesis story. It will be revolutionary. Even if the tablets don't appear, the importance of the things we've found here should merit publication. We're uncovering a ziggurat that no one knew existed, and in better condition than we could have hoped for. Don't worry, this is already a success, and we all share in it. I've had more than my share of la gloire, madame—my career, my name is secure. You have no reason to fear that I'll steal the limelight, or the well-deserved credit, from you. But you're quite right that this is our work, because none of this would be possible without Fabian Tudela, Marta Gomez, and the others."

  Yves then bent back down to his work without another word. Clara hesitated just a moment, and then walked off to a group clearing the sand and other sediment off another section of ground.

  The sun was dropping below the horizon by the time Picot called off work for the day. The workers and team members were exhausted and hungry, and they were more than ready to return to their homes in the village or the camp for dinner.