"Yes," he answered, staring her straight in the eye. And then, "Look, so far we've avoided antagonism. We're not enemies, Clara. And I don't want us to be."
"We aren't, because I've chosen not to confront you about this. Let's just leave things the way they are. My grandfather wants to see you and Yasir as soon as possible."
"Give me a minute to clean up. I'll be right there."
Clara went into her grandfather's room. The doctor had just given him an injection, and earlier the nurse had finished administering a blood transfusion, which seemed to have brought the color back to his sunken cheeks.
"I feel much better," Alfred told his granddaughter.
"It's only a temporary improvement," the doctor insisted.
"I'm not expecting a hundred more years. But you'll keep me like this until I tell you not to."
The old man's tone of voice left no room for argument.
"I'll do everything in my power, sir."
"My granddaughter will, of course, see that you are rewarded, generously," he said, looking at Clara.
She went over to her grandfather and kissed his forehead. He smelled like soap. "So, Doctor, do you think my grandfather can come out and sit in the living room and talk for a while?" Clara asked.
"Yes, but not for too long; it could—"
Three light, staccato taps at the door interrupted the doctor. "Sir, Mr. Yasir and Mr. Ahmed are waiting for you in the living room," Fatima announced.
"Take my arm, Grandfather. Can you?"
"I can do it myself—I don't need your arm. Those jackals think I'm dying. Even if I am, I'm not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing it—not yet."
Clara opened the door and they moved toward the living room. Yasir and Ahmed stood up as they entered.
"Sir . . ." Ahmed, surprised, managed to say. "Alfred ..." was all that Yasir said.
Alfred Tannenberg sneered at them, then laughed openly. He knew they'd expected to see him at death's door.
"Did you think you were coming to my funeral? The air in Safran does me good, and being with Clara gives me the strength to live—not that I lack the desire."
Neither of the two men replied, waiting for Tannenberg to sit down. But he decided to walk around the room instead, watching them out of the corner of his eye.
"Grandfather, would you like Fatima to bring something in?"
"No, no, nothing—maybe some water. But I'm sure our guests are hungry; Fatima can bring them something to eat. We have a lot to talk about."
The three men were then left alone.
Yasir gave Tannenberg the note from his nephew. Tannenberg read it and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
"So the war will start on March twentieth. . . . Fine, the sooner the better; my men are ready. Have you done as I've instructed you?" he asked Ahmed.
"Yes, sir. But it was complicated. There were hundreds and hundreds of uncatalogued artifacts in the museums. I had to spend more money than we originally allocated to hire people inside to catalogue the most important pieces in each museum. I gave the lists to Yasir, as you requested."
"I know. Enrique and Frank have already contacted their clients, and there are buyers ready to assume ownership of all the treasures we can bring out. George has also notified his clients, through Robert Brown, so everything's set. What's happening with Dukais' Green Beret?"
Yasir cleared his throat before answering. He knew that question was aimed at him.
"Mike Fernandez is ready too, sir. His men are stationed at the location you chose. There won't be any problems transporting the merchandise, especially in military helicopters. All we have to do now is wait."
"This is the largest art-sale operation we've ever mounted," Tannenberg said. "The truth is, we are doing mankind a favor by saving Iraq's most priceless treasures. If we didn't remove them, they'd be destroyed. Once the war breaks out, mobs will loot everything, and those people can't tell the difference between a Sumerian cylinder seal and a hubcap."
Neither Yasir nor Ahmed replied to Tannenberg's assertion. They were thieves, it was true, but it seemed unnecessary to dwell on that or to characterize what they were doing as something else.
"How many pieces do you calculate we'll be able to extract?" Tannenberg asked Ahmed.
"If everything goes well, more than ten thousand. I've made an exhaustive list of what should be taken from each museum. I have provided the men with detailed floor plans and the locations of the most important pieces. I hope they don't smash up too much."
"How sentimental you are, Ahmed!" Tannenberg laughed.
Ahmed clenched his teeth in anger and humiliation. Alfred Tannenberg's laughter was like a slap in the face.
"As soon as the bombing starts, the teams will enter the museums. They are to gather up the designated pieces in the shortest time possible and get the hell out. Period. Crossing over to Kuwait won't be a problem, as long as the Green Beret does his job," Tannenberg said.
"And what will you do? How long will you stay here?"
Alfred had been expecting Yasir's question.
"That's not your concern, but don't worry, my friend, the war won't touch me. By the time the bombs start falling I'll be in a safe place, I assure you. I'm not ready to die yet."
"What about Clara?" Ahmed asked.
"Clara will leave as well. I still have to decide whether to send her to Cairo or along with Picot's team."
"There's not much time," Ahmed insisted.
"If I think you need to know, I'll tell you when Clara is leaving. But we still have a few more days to find the Bible of Clay."
"But if the Americans attack on the twentieth . . .," protested Ahmed.
"What do you know? Obey your orders and be happy that you're being paid—and that you'll be getting out with your life."
Tannenberg poured himself a glass of water and drank it slowly. Neither Ahmed nor Yasir had so much as tasted the food that Fatima had brought in.
"All right, let's finish reviewing the operation and the financial details. We're going to make a lot of money, but we've also had to invest a great deal—my men always know that their advance is in the bank waiting for their families in case something happens to them."
Clara dined with Picot and the rest of the team. But Ahmed's presence had put her on edge. It was not going to be easy to share a room with him, even for one night. He seemed like a perfect stranger to her.
"When are we going to see your husband?" Fabian asked. "Tomorrow, I imagine. Tonight he's meeting with my grandfather; they'll be late."
"Is he going to stay in Iraq, or will he try to leave before the war starts?" Marta wanted to know.
"None of us knows when the war will start. The reporters can't even be sure. They say it's inevitable, but no one knows what will happen, or when," Clara replied.
"That's not an answer," Marta pushed her.
"It's the only answer I can give. At any rate, I want to stay here until. . . well, until I can't stay anymore. Then I'll see. If war does break out, I'll reevaluate my position." "Come with us."
Picot's invitation took her by surprise, but it occurred to her that his slightly mocking tone left no doubt that her fate mattered little to him.
"Are you offering me political asylum?" she asked in an attempt to be ironic.
"Me? Well, if there's nothing to be done, we can try. Fabian, do you think we can smuggle her out? "
"It's not a joking matter," Marta scolded them. "Clara could very easily find herself in a bind; we have to help her."
They all fell silent until Lion Doyle broke in.
"Clara, I need to ask you a favor. You know that Yves wants me to prepare an exhaustive report on all the items you've discovered here. Do you think your grandfather would allow me to photograph him? It wouldn't take long, and I think it's only fair that a person who's invested so much time and money . . . you know, ought to be recognized for his contribution."
"My grandfather is a businessman; he's financing part of the expedition. I
don't think he needs or wants the publicity, but I'll ask him."
"Thanks. Even if he's a modest man, I'd like a photograph of the two of you together, at the least."
"I said I'll ask him—that'll have to do for now."
"I'd like to stay."
Gian Maria's soft voice brought them all back to the issue at hand. Clara looked at him affectionately. She'd come to feel a real warmth toward the young priest, who followed her around like a puppy. Gian Maria actually seemed to suffer when he lost sight of her, when she wandered away. His devotion was moving, though she didn't really understand it.
"Until we talk to Ahmed, it's best not to make any decisions," Yves said.
"Of course, but if Clara stays to work, I'm staying too," Gian Maria declared.
"What are you saying!" Picot almost shouted. "You can't stay here! If the war starts, do you think you can just keep working? There won't be a single man to help you; they'll all be called up. And in any case, you can't excavate if you're being shelled. Or have you not been paying attention?"
Picot had come to like Gian Maria too, and he felt responsible for what might happen to him.
"If Clara stays, I'm staying," the priest stubbornly repeated.
Gian Maria sat in the door of the house he shared with Ante Plaskic and Lion Doyle. He didn't feel like sleeping, and he needed to be alone.
He lit a cigarette and let his gaze wander toward the star-filled sky. He had to put his spirit in order. He'd been here for months now, asking himself who he was, who he'd been, who he had become.
Every day, before the camp awoke to start its labors, he offered a mass—a mass attended by only him and God, because no one else had shown any interest in taking part in it, though he hadn't the heart to ask anyone to. He knew, then, that his faith in God was still firm and unshaken. That, and his devotion to his vows, was the only thing that hadn't changed. He still felt his calling to the priesthood, but sometimes it seemed to him that going back to the calm and order of the monastery where he'd lived since he'd been ordained—a life monastic in every sense of the word—would be an unbearable sacrifice. He was beginning to get used to this new way of life.
It had been a surprise to him when his superior sent him to St. Peter's to be a confessor. At first, he had been overwhelmed by the responsibility, doubting his ability, even his worthiness, to receive confessions. But Padre Pio had convinced him that he was needed in Rome. "The Vatican," he had told him, "needs young men, young priests to keep in touch with the changing realities of the world, and there's no better place for that than St. Peter's itself."
He would have to go back, he knew that, but he would no longer be the same priest who'd arrived in Iraq. He would miss life in the open air, the camaraderie he'd come to know with this motley team—that sense of freedom he'd found. It was strange, under the circumstances, hut freedom was the only word that seemed to truly describe his experience at this strange excavation, with so many varied people, under the infinite stars of the desert.
And that led him to think about Clara. He had developed a true affection for her. As he strove to protect her, she'd come to be like a sister to him—a difficult, touchy sister, but a sister all the same.
Perhaps the time had come to tell her that he was there to save her life. But no—he couldn't do that without breaking the secrecy, the absolute confidentiality, of the confessional, without betraying God and the man who had made the confession, however misled he was.
Out of the darkness, Clara slowly walked over to Gian Maria's house and sat down beside him. She, too, lit a cigarette and stared off into the night sky. The priest knew that the guards who watched her constantly must not be far away.
"Professor Picot is right. You shouldn't stay."
"That may be true, Clara, but I'm going to anyway; I couldn't sleep at night knowing that you were here alone."
"My grandfather may force me to go to Cairo." "Cairo?"
"Yes. We have a house there—you're most welcome to come whenever you're in the neighborhood." She laughed.
"So . . . you're leaving?" he asked, not hiding his concern.
"I'm going to resist as long as I can, but my grandfather will force me to leave if war breaks out. You're a religious man, Gian Maria—ask God to help us find those tablets."
"I'll ask, but you should ask too. Don't you pray?"
"No, never."
"Are you Muslim?"
"No, I'm not anything."
"Even if you don't practice, you must have been raised under some religious tradition."
"My mother was Christian, and I was baptized, but I've never set foot in a church, or a mosque either, except out of curiosity."
"Then why this absolute obsession to find the Bible of Clay? It's nothing if not a religious artifact. Is it just out of vanity?"
"There are children who grow up listening to fairy tales or stories of Prince Charming. I grew up listening to my grandfather talk about the Bible of Clay. He's always wanted me to find it. He would tell me stories in which I was the heroine, the archaeologist who finds a great treasure, the most important treasure in the world, the Bible of Clay."
"And you want to make a childhood dream come true."
"You really won't even consider that Abraham would talk to a scribe about the creation?"
"Well, certainly the Bible says nothing about that, and its story of the patriarch is very detailed. ..."
"You know that archaeology hasn't found some of the cities described in the Bible and that there's no proof of the existence of some of its central figures, yet you believe in everything the Bible says."
"Clara, I'm not saying there's no Bible of Clay. Abraham lived in these lands; he knew the legends of creation, the flood, everything. He could very well have told someone about those legends, or perhaps God revealed the truth to him. ... I don't know. Honestly, I just don't know what to think about it."
"But you're here, you've been working like the rest of us, and now you want to stay. Why is that, then?"
"If the Bible of Clay exists, I want to find it too. It would be an extraordinary discovery for Christianity."
"For archaeology too, lest you forget. It would be a discovery like Troy or Mycenae, like the discovery of the pharaoh's tombs in the Valley of the Kings. The person who finds the Bible of Clay will go down in history."
"And you want to go down in history?"
"I want to find those tablets of my grandfather's; I want to see him live to hold them. I want to make his lifelong dream come true at last." "You love him very much."
"Yes, I love my grandfather very much, and ... I think that I am the only person he's ever loved."
"The men are afraid of him, even Ayed Sahadi."
"I know. My grandfather . . . my grandfather is demanding; he likes to see work done well. As do I."
Gian Maria didn't want to tell her that perhaps Alfred Tannenberg liked to see other people in pain, that he humiliated the humble and sadistically punished anyone who crossed him. Nor did he want to tell her what his personal experience of her grandfather had been.
Gian Maria had been in Alfred Tannenberg's presence on only one occasion, when he went to take Clara a copy of his translation of the most recent tablets they had found.
Tannenberg was sitting in the living room reading, and when Gian Maria knocked, he told him to come in. Alfred interrogated him for fifteen minutes, then seemed to grow bored and sent him to wait outside until Clara came out. Gian Maria left the house knowing that he had seen in Tannenberg a manifestation of the devil himself; he was convinced that evil had found a refuge in that man's soul.
"You aren't like your grandfather," the priest said.
"I think I am. My father used to say that I was as hardheaded and stubborn as my grandfather."
"I'm not talking about your personality, I'm talking about your soul."
"But you don't know my grandfather," Clara protested. "You don't know what he's like."
"I've come to know you, though."
r /> "And what do you think you know about me?"
"I know that you're a victim, the victim of a dream, your grandfather's dream. It's governed your life so thoroughly that you've become a prisoner without knowing it."
Clara looked at him hard, then stood up. She wasn't angry with Gian Maria, she couldn't be; everything he had told her was true. Besides, the priest had spoken to her with affection, with no intention to offend her, almost stretching out his hand to her to lead her through the shadows.
"Thank you, Gian Maria."
"Good night, Clara. Sleep well."
Fatima was waiting for her at the door of the house and quietly put her finger over her lips. She led her into her grandfather's room, where Samira, the nurse, was giving Alfred an injection under the close watch of Dr. Najeb.
"He overdid it today," whispered the physician.
Clara could only look on helplessly.
"As soon as he came into the room he fainted. Thank goodness Samira was here waiting to give him medications before he fell asleep; otherwise, I don't know what would have happened," Dr. Najeb explained.
Samira helped Fatima make Tannenberg comfortable in the bed, and as they did, he stretched out his hand toward Clara, who sat down beside him.
"I won't allow you to do this again, Grandfather," she scolded him while she caressed his hand. "I'm fine, just a little tired."
"Grandfather, you trust me. Shouldn't you tell me what's going on?" "Clara, you're the only person I trust."
"Then let me in on this other project of yours, tell me what you want done, and I will see that your orders are followed. I can do it."