"Yes, Fabian. I was coming to that. You see, Ahmed, Fabian and Marta thought that we should unveil Safran to the scientific community. What we've found here is of incalculable value, as you know. We'd thought about a traveling exhibit, to be presented in several countries. We'll seek funding from universities and private foundations. You, and of course Clara, could help us get things under way."
Ahmed weighed Picot's suggestion. Basically, Yves was asking him to allow everything they'd found in the excavation to be taken out of the country. He felt a wave of anxiety: Many of the objects Picot's team had found had already been sold in advance to private collectors, who would be eager to display their new possessions. Clara, of course, didn't know this, nor did Alfred Tannenberg, but Paul Dukais, the president of Planet Security, had been adamant in his last conversation with Yasir. Some collectors already knew about the existence of the objects through the reports published in Scientific Archaeology. They'd contacted intermediaries, who in turn had called Robert Brown, president of the Mundo Antiguo Foundation, which had always been the cover for the illegal antiquities business of George Wagner, Frank dos Santos, and Enrique Gomez Thomson, Alfred's business partners.
"What you're asking is impossible," Ahmed replied curtly.
"I know it's difficult, especially given the current situation, but you're an archaeologist, you know how important the discovery of this temple is. If we leave behind what we've found here . . . Well, all our work, all these months of sacrifice will have been meaningless. If you convince your superiors how significant these findings would be to the archaeological community, your country will most certainly be the first to benefit. And everything, of course, will be returned to Iraq. But first let the world see what we've found, let us organize shows in Paris, Madrid, London, New York, Berlin. We wouldn't be taking these things for ourselves, for our own glory. Your government can appoint you commissioner of the exhibit on Iraq's behalf. We can do it. We've worked hard, Ahmed."
Picot stopped talking, trying to read Ahmed's body language, but it was Clara who spoke.
"Professor Picot, aren't you forgetting me?"
"Not at all, Clara. If we've gotten this far, it's because of you. Nothing we've done here would have been possible without you. We don't want to usurp your contributions—quite the contrary. We're here because you so stubbornly insisted on our coming. That's why I'm asking you to suspend the dig and come with us. We need you to help prepare the exhibit, give lectures, participate in seminars, accompany the objects wherever they travel. But we can't do any of that unless your husband persuades his government to let us take what we've found out oflraq."
"My husband may not be able to do that, but my grandfather can."
Clara's statement didn't surprise them, and Picot was fully prepared to talk to Alfred Tannenberg if Ahmed turned out to be overly reticent. The months he'd spent in Iraq had taught him that there was nothing Tannenberg couldn't do if he wanted to.
"It would be wonderful if Ahmed and your grandfather could convince the government," Picot said.
Ahmed was making his own calculations. This might be his only opportunity to escape from Iraq. Picot was offering him an unexpected cover. It would be best to try to gain time by assuring them that he would do everything in his power to help them—enthusiastically.
"So, will you come with us?" Marta asked Clara.
"No, at least not now, Marta. But I think it's a wonderful idea that the world know what we've uncovered here in Safran. I'll stay on; I know I can find the Bible of Clay."
The camp was silent as Clara, accompanied by Gian Maria, walked back toward her house. Ahmed had discreetly slipped into the hospital tent for the night.
"I like the night—I love the stillness; it's the best time for thinking. Will you go out to the site with me?" she asked the priest.
"If you'd like, I'll go out there with you. Shouldn't we take a jeep?"
"No, let's walk. It's a long way, I know, but it will do us good."
Clara's bodyguards stayed several yards behind them, impassive, as always, at her whims.
When they neared the excavation site, Clara found a place to sit. She patted the sand next to her for Gian Maria.
"Gian Maria, why do you want to stay here? No one can protect you if the Americans start bombing."
"I know, but I'm not afraid. I'm no daredevil, but right now I'm not afraid," he repeated.
"But why don't you leave? You're a priest, and here . . . well, here you haven't been able to do anything very . . . priestly, you know. We're all lost souls, and you've really been very respectful to us—you haven't tried to win us over to the Church at all."
"Clara, I'd like to help you find the Bible of Clay. I'm intrigued by the idea of it. It would be something to know whether Abraham himself revealed the story of Genesis—and if so, whether it is the same Genesis that we know."
"So you're staying out of curiosity."
"I'm staying to help you, Clara. I. . . well, I just wouldn't feel right leaving you alone."
Clara laughed. That Gian Maria believed he could protect her, when she was under the protection of armed men night and day, was amusing. But the priest seemed to really believe that he possessed some special power that could keep anything bad from happening to her.
"What do the other priests in your order say when you talk to them?"
"My superior encourages me to help those who need me; he knows how hard life is in Iraq now."
"But really, you're not saving anybody's soul—you're here with us, working on archaeological matters."
She hadn't really thought much about it up to that point, but it struck her then—as others had pointed out—how odd the priest's tenure with them in Safran had been, working like just any other member of the team.
"They know that, but even so, they think I can be useful here."
"Perhaps, after all, the Church would like a chance at the Bible of Clay?" Clara asked with an edge in her voice.
"Please, Clara! The Church has nothing to do with my staying in Safran. It was my choice, and it hurts me that you doubt my motives. I have permission from my superior to be here; he knows what I'm doing and he has no objection. Many priests work; I'm not the only one.
There's nothing strange about it. Of course, at some point I have to go back to Rome, but I've been here months, not years, no matter how long it's seemed to you."
"You know, Gian Maria, sometimes I mink that you're the only friend I have here, the only person who'd help me if I needed it."
They sat quietly for a while longer, lost in their own thoughts, untroubled by the occasional noises of the night that were amplified, it seemed, by the prevailing silence.
Soon the night turned cold, and they decided to turn in.
Clara entered the house as quietly as she could, surprised by the total darkness that greeted her. She made her way toward her grandfather's room, where she was sure Samira and Fatima would be sitting with him.
Slipping into the room, she stretched out her hand and followed the wall so that she wouldn't bump into anything. She whispered Samira's name but got no response. There was a metallic, sticky smell in the air. She couldn't see a thing, and neither Fatima nor Samira responded when she called again. She was furious, thinking that the two women had fallen asleep. Then her hand found the light switch.
As the light dimly illuminated the room, she stifled a scream. Nausea rose in her throat.
Samira was lying on the floor, her eyes wide open. A trickle of blood had run out of her mouth and across her pale cheek.
Clara didn't know how long she stood there, frozen, leaning against the wall, but it seemed like an eternity before she marshaled the courage to approach her grandfather's bed. She was certain she'd find him dead.
The oxygen mask was dangling off the side of the bed, and her grandfather lay there unmoving, his face as white as candle wax. Clara touched her fingers to his lips and felt his light breathing, then put her ear to his chest and sensed the quiet, muffle
d beating of his heart, as though his life was ebbing away. In a panic, she put the oxygen mask back on him and ran out, desperate for help.
Throwing on the living room light, she saw what she had missed in the darkness earlier. The two men guarding her grandfather's door were sprawled on the floor, as dead as Samira. Another wave of panic washed over her. She was alone, terrified that the murderer was still there, in the house.
She ran outside, stopping short with relief when she saw the men who usually stood guard outside the house, the same ones who had greeted her just minutes earlier when they saw her bid good night to Gian Maria. How had someone been able to enter the house without their noticing?
"Madam Tannenberg, what is it?" asked one of them, taken aback by the expression on her face.
"Where's Dr. Najeb?" she asked, her voice barely audible. This man might very well be the murderer of Samira and the other guards.
"He's asleep in his house, madam," said the guard, pointing over to the doctor's small dwelling.
"Call him." Clara's tone betrayed her desperation.
By then, other guards had joined them, and she sent one to find Gian Maria and Picot. She knew she should notify Ahmed, but she didn't want to do that until the Frenchman and the priest had arrived. She didn't trust her husband.
The doctor appeared less than two minutes later. He hadn't had time to comb his hair or even splash water on his face; all the guard had allowed him to do was pull on a pair of pants and a shirt. He was still half asleep.
"What's wrong?" he asked, alarmed by the look on Clara's face. "What time did you leave my grandfather?" Clara asked, ignoring his question.
"Just after ten. He was resting quietly. Samira was sitting up with him. What's happened?"
Clara returned to the house and her grandfather's room, followed by the doctor. Salam Najeb stood paralyzed at the door, his face reflecting his horror. Then, ignoring the lifeless body of Samira on the floor, he strode decisively over to Tannenberg's bed. He straightened the oxygen mask and took his pulse as he watched the lines on the monitor trace the sick man's vital signs. He examined him thoroughly, until he was sure that he was all right, that he'd not been harmed in any way. Then he prepared a syringe, gave the old man an injection, and changed the bottle of intravenous fluid and medication.
When he had finished, he turned toward Clara, who was standing silently by.
"He seems not to have been harmed." He then went over to Samira's body, knelt, and carefully examined her.
"She's been strangled. She must have tried to defend herself, or defend him," he said, gesturing toward the bed.
Then he gave a start and strode into the far corner of the room. There in the shadows, sprawled in a pool of blood, lay Fatima. Clara couldn't keep back a scream.
"Calm down, she's still alive, she's breathing, although she's taken a terrible blow to the head. We'll take her to the hospital tent; I can't treat her here. I'm going to go get the men outside to help us."
Crying, Clara knelt down next to Fatima. Two guards came in, gathered the old woman up, and carried her out.
When Yves and Gian Maria came in, Clara burst into tears in earnest.
Gian Maria rushed over and put his arms around her. "There, there, now. Are you all right?" the priest murmured.
"Tell us what happened—My God!" Picot said, seeing Samira's body.
"I've asked the guards to take the body to the hospital tent," Dr. Najeb told Clara. "The men outside were shot once in the head, apparently from close range. The killer must have been using a silencer. I've had them taken over to the hospital tent as well."
"What about my grandfather?" cried Clara.
"I've done all I can do for the moment. Someone should watch over him—call me if there's any change at all. But now I need to see to Fatima, and you need to call the authorities and report this. Samira was murdered, and so were the two others."
Salam Najeb turned away. He was crying, for Samira and for himself, for having agreed to come to Safran on this impossible undertaking. He'd done it for the money; Tannenberg had offered him five years' salary to take care of him, in addition to promising that he would buy him an apartment in Cairo. But nothing was worth this.
Ayed Sahadi met the doctor at the door. He looked terrible—pale, fearful, terrified, even, because he knew that Tannenberg would hold him responsible for this and that the Colonel was capable of personally torturing him if the security he was responsible for had failed.
When he entered Tannenberg's room, two of his men were leaving with Samira's body. Clara was still crying and Picot was ordering one of his men to find a woman from the village to sit with the old man.
"Where were you?" Clara screamed at Sahadi when she saw him come in. "You're going to pay dearly for this."
The overseer didn't respond; he didn't even look at her. He began examining the room, the window, the floor, the furniture, everything. The men with him stood by expectantly, not daring to move without his permission.
Several minutes later, the commander of the contingent of soldiers arrived and launched into a heated exchange in Arabic with Sahadi. They were both terrified—they knew that their superiors were even more cruel than they were.
Clara was watching the monitor for her grandfather's vital signs. She thought she saw his eyes twitch and start to open, and he stirred slightly, but then he seemed to subside into a more peaceful slumber.
The village leader arrived, with his wife and two of his daughters. Clara explained what she expected of them. They would be in charge of the house, and the two younger women would not leave her grandfather's bedside.
Ayed Sahadi and the commander of the army detail had agreed to begin investigating immediately; their men would turn both the camp and village upside down for any clue that would lead them to the murderer—and the would-be murderer of Alfred Tannenberg himself, for there was no doubt that he was the actual target. In addition, all the members of the archaeological team, including the workers from the village, would without exception be searched and interrogated. The most difficult decision for them was whether to call the Colonel; they finally decided against it until they could make their own assessment.
Just then Ahmed came in and made his way to Clara's side through the people now crowding the room. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner; I was with the doctor. He told me what happened, and I've been helping him with Fatima. She's unconscious, and she's lost a lot of blood. She was struck by something heavy. I don't think she'll be able to tell us anything until tomorrow—the doctor has her under sedation."
"Will she live?" Clara asked.
"Yes—or at least Dr. Najeb thinks she will," Ahmed replied.
After making their way past the armed men standing outside the door, Fabian and Marta entered the room. Yves began to fill them in, and Marta immediately took charge.
"I think we all need to move to the living room, given Mr. Tannenberg's state. You," she said, addressing the village leader's wife, "go and make some coffee, please. It's going to be a long night."
Clara gave her a grateful smile. She trusted Marta, and no one was better equipped to bring order to this chaos.
Marta then turned to Ayed Sahadi and the commander, who were still chattering at each other in a corner of the room.
"Have you thoroughly examined everything here?" she asked them.
Both the men bridled. Marta ignored their protests.
"You can continue your discussion outside. You two," she said to the village leader's daughters, "will stay with Mr. Tannenberg as you've been instructed, and in my opinion a couple of armed guards ought to stay in the room too, just in case. But nobody else. Let's go—everybody out," she ordered.
They all filed out. Gian Maria never left Clara's side, and Yves took Fabian aside to speak privately.
Clara settled herself in the living room, only to realize that the man charged by her grandfather with the camp security was looking at her with contained fury
"Mrs. Husseini, tell us
the exact time you went into your grandfather's room, and why," Sahadi demanded. "Did you hear anything strange?"
Clara, in a flat monotone, went through everything that had happened since her walk with Gian Maria.
For almost an hour she answered Sahadi's questions and those of the commander, who urged her to try to recall every possible detail.
"Well, the question that has to be asked of you two," said Picot finally, addressing Sahadi and the commander, "is how it's possible, with the house surrounded by armed men, for someone to get in without being seen and to reach Mr. Tannenberg's room, first killing two guards and the nurse and seriously wounding Fatima."
"Yes," seconded Ahmed. "The Colonel will be arriving tomorrow, and he'll be expecting answers."
The two men looked at each other. Ahmed Husseini had given them the worst possible news—the Colonel was coming personally.
"You called him?" Clara asked her husband.
"Of course. A woman and two men responsible for your grandfather's safety were murdered here tonight. It's not hard to imagine that the real target was him. So it was my duty to inform Baghdad. I assume, Commander, that you'll soon receive a call, but if not, let me tell you: A detail of the Republican Guard is on its way here now to oversee our security properly. It's clear you haven't been able to do that, or prevent this terrible act of betrayal, and the same goes for our friend Sahadi."
"Betrayal? Whose betrayal?" Ayed asked nervously.
"Betrayal by someone here among us, in this camp—I don't know whether he's an Iraqi or a foreigner, but I have no doubt that the killer is one of us," Ahmed stated flatly.
"Including you."
Everyone turned toward Clara. She regretted the words as soon as she uttered them. Accusing her husband of being among the suspects made the rupture between the two of them clear, which she knew was a mistake.