The Bible of Clay

  Ahmed glared at her. He didn't respond, although everyone could see the effort he was making to control himself. "The question is why," said Marta. "Why?" Fabian repeated.

  "Yes, why somebody went into Mr. Tannenberg's room—whether it was really to murder him, as Ahmed thinks, or it was just a thief who was surprised by Samira and the guards and—"

  "Marta, it's hard to believe that a mere thief would take on all the security around here," pointed out Picot. "What do you think, Clara?"

  Marta's direct question caught Clara off guard. She didn't know what to say. Her grandfather was a powerful, feared man. He had many enemies, any one of whom might have wanted him dead.

  "I don't know. I don't know what to think. I'm . . . I'm . . . I'm exhausted. . . . This is all so awful."

  A soldier came in, whispered something in the commander's ear, then left as quickly as he'd come.

  "All right," the commander said, "my men have begun questioning the workers and the villagers. So far, no one seems to have seen anything. Professor Picot, we will also be questioning the members of your team, including you."

  "Of course. We're happy to cooperate with the investigation in any way we can."

  "The sooner we begin, the better. Would you mind going first?" the commander asked him.

  "Not at all. Where do you want to talk?"

  "What about right here? Mrs. Husseini, would you mind if we worked here?"

  "Yes," answered Clara. "Find someplace else. In one of the storerooms, maybe."

  Picot and the commander left, followed by Marta, Fabian, and Gian Maria, who would be questioned after Yves. Only Clara, Ahmed, and Ayed remained in the living room.

  "Is there anything you haven't told us?" Ahmed asked Clara.

  "I've told you everything I remember. You, Ayed, need to tell us how someone was able to get into my grandfather's room."

  "I don't know. We've checked every possible point, all the doors and windows. I don't know where they came in, whether it was one man or a team. All of my men swear they saw nothing," Sahadi said. "No one could get in without their noticing."

  "But somebody did. And it must have been a person, not a ghost, because ghosts don't shoot people at point-blank range and strangle defenseless women," Ahmed said disgustedly.

  "I know, I know. But I just don't understand how it could have happened. Of course, it's possible that it was someone inside the house," Ayed suggested.

  "The only people in the house were Fatima, Samira, and the men who were guarding the door to my grandfather's room," Clara pointed out.

  "And you—after all, it was you who found the bodies."

  Clara looked at Ayed with fire in her eyes, then sprang to her feet and slapped him so hard that the imprint of her fingers remained on his cheek. Ahmed leapt up and grabbed her before Ayed could react.

  "Clara! That's enough! Sit down! Have we all gone crazy? And you, Ayed, I don't ever want to hear insinuations like that again. I assure you I won't tolerate any lack of respect toward my wife."

  "There were three murders here tonight, and we're all suspects until the guilty party is found," Ayed said.

  Ahmed looked like he was about to strike the foreman himself, but instead he just waved him off with a parting shot. "That's right, Ayed. You're a suspect too. Maybe somebody paid you off to kill Tannenberg. Tread very carefully, Ayed."

  The foreman turned abruptly and left the living room as Clara slumped back into her chair. Her husband sat down beside her.

  "Clara, you have to try to control yourself; you can't let yourself go like that."

  "I know, but I'm a wreck. I'm absolutely destroyed, Ahmed." "Your grandfather is in very bad shape; you should have him moved to Cairo, or at least to Baghdad."

  "Is that what Dr. Najeb told you?"

  "Nobody has to tell me; all you have to do is look at him to see that he's dying. Admit it; you can't keep up this fiction that he's rallying."

  "Leave me alone! You'd love it if he died, but he'll live, you'll see— he'll live, and he'll have you all cut into pieces for the traitors you are!"

  "If you won't listen to reason, I'd better go where I can be of some help. If I were you, I'd try to rest."

  "I'm going to see Fatima."

  "Fine, I'll walk with you."

  But they didn't get out of the house, because they met Dr. Najeb at the door. He looked exhausted.

  He told them that he still didn't know whether Fatima would recover from the blow to her head. She'd been hit with something heavy, there was no doubt of that, and it had made a deep laceration.

  "She's the only person who can tell us what happened—if she had time to see what was going on," Ahmed noted.

  Alfred Tannenberg was breathing with difficulty, and his vital signs seemed to have plummeted. Dr. Najeb told the young women in no uncertain terms that they should have called him. Clara cursed herself for not staying at her grandfather's bedside, and she noted Ahmed, not bothering to hide a slight smile of satisfaction as he evaluated the old man's condition.

  The doctor prepared a transfusion of plasma and sent them off to sleep for a while if they could, promising that he wouldn't move from Tannenberg's side.

  The noise of the helicopter cut through the heavy silence that had fallen over the camp. Picot, Fabian, and Marta had finally agreed to end the adventure. As soon as they received permission from Ayed and the other authorities on-site, they would begin to dismantle the camp and pack up for the trip home. They wouldn't stay a day longer than necessary.

  Shortly before dawn, a detachment of the Republican Guard had arrived—Saddam Hussein's feared elite corps of bodyguards and fighters. Nevertheless, Marta thought that they should keep pressing for permission to take the objects they'd unearthed back to Europe.

  Picot watched Clara walk with her husband toward the helicopter. The blades hadn't stopped turning when a heavyset man with black hair and a thick black mustache—a veritable carbon copy of Saddam himself—nimbly jumped out. After him came two other soldiers and a woman.

  The first man, dressed in military greens, communicated a clear air of authority, and it struck Picot that there was also something sinister about him.

  The Colonel shook Ahmed's hand and patted Clara on the shoulder, then walked with them toward Tannenberg's house. He motioned to the woman to follow them.

  The woman seemed a bit overwhelmed by the surroundings, and there was also a certain tightness, a tension, around her mouth. Clara waited for her to catch up with them and then greeted her warmly. The Colonel had just told her that the woman was a nurse, eminently trustworthy, from a military hospital. When he heard that Samira had been murdered, he had decided he should bring the nurse to help Dr. Najeb.

  The sun was beating down when a soldier came for Picot, with a message that the newcomer would like to speak to him.

  Neither Clara nor Ahmed was in the living room of Tannenberg's house, just the man they called the Colonel, who was smoking a cigar and sipping a cup of tea.

  He didn't offer his hand or make any effort to greet Picot beyond a brief inclination of his head. Picot decided to sit down, even if the Colonel hadn't asked him to.

  The Colonel went straight to the point. "Tell me your opinion of what has happened here."

  "I haven't the slightest idea." "You must have some theory."

  "No, really I don't. I've only spoken to Mr. Tannenberg once in my life, so I can't say I know him. Actually, I know almost nothing about him, so I couldn't venture to say why someone would have broken in to his room and killed his nurse and the guards hired to protect him."

  "Do you suspect anyone?"

  "Me? How could I? I can't imagine that there's a murderer among us."

  "But there is, Professor Picot. I hope Fatima will be able to talk. There's a possibility that she saw the person, whoever it was. But at any rate, my men are also going to question the members of your team."

  "They already have; they questioned us all last night."

  "You must
understand that it's necessary. I want you to tell me who is who; I need to know everything about everyone who is here, both Iraqis and foreigners. With the Iraqis there will be no problem; I'll be able to find out everything I need to know about them—more, even, than they know about themselves. But your people . . . Help us, Professor Picot, tell me everything."

  "Listen, I've known most of the people here for a long time. They are archaeologists and graduate students. Honest, decent people. You won't find a murderer among them."

  "You'd be surprised where one might find people willing to kill someone. Do you know them all? Is there anyone you have known for only a short time?"

  Yves Picot remained silent. The Colonel was asking him a question that he didn't want to answer. If he said there were members of the expedition that he'd never seen until his arrival in Iraq, he'd turn them into suspects, and in Iraq, suspects more often than not were "found" to be guilty.

  "Think, take your time," the Colonel told him.

  "Actually, I know them all. They're people recommended by close friends whom I trust implicitly."

  "I, however, have to mistrust everyone implicitly. That's the only way we get results."

  "Mister . . ."

  "Call me Colonel."

  "Colonel, I'm an archaeologist. I'm not in the habit of consorting with killers, and the members of archaeological missions don't tend to go around killing people. Ask all you like; question us as much as you need to, but I doubt very much that you're going to find your killer among our group."

  "I have a list here of the members of your group. I'd like to talk to you about each one of them—maybe we can discover something, maybe not. May we begin?"

  Yves nodded. He had no choice. This man was not going to take no for an answer. So he'd talk to him, but he'd offer nothing but trivialities.

  They had just started when Clara came into the living room. She was smiling, which struck Picot as odd. With three dead bodies and an assassin loose in the camp, there wasn't much to smile about.

  "Colonel, my grandfather would like to see you."

  "So he's recovered consciousness," the Colonel murmured.

  "Yes, and he says he feels better than he has in days."

  "I'll be there at once. Professor Picot, we will talk later."

  "Whenever you like."

  The Colonel left with Clara, while Picot breathed a sigh of relief. He knew he couldn't get out of the interrogation, but at least he had gained some time to gather his thoughts and prepare himself. Meantime, he'd find Fabian and Marta so they could talk this over.

  Dr. Najeb gestured to the Colonel and Clara not to come to the bed until the nurse had finished changing the IV.

  Salam Najeb was practically asleep on his feet; the signs of exhaustion were patent on his weary face. Clearly, the struggle to keep Alfred Tannenberg and Fatima alive during the last twenty-four hours had taken its toll.

  "He seems to have recovered miraculously, but you mustn't tire him," he told Clara and the Colonel, knowing full well that they would do exactly as they pleased.

  "You should get some sleep, Doctor," Clara told him.

  "Yes, now that Aliya is here, I'll go freshen up and rest for a while. But first I'll stop by and check on Fatima."

  "My men are interrogating her," the Colonel said.

  "I gave orders that she was not to be disturbed until I made certain she was in a condition to answer questions!" the doctor practically shouted.

  "That's enough, Doctor! She is awake and will be very useful to us. Only Mr. Tannenberg and Fatima know what happened in this room, and it is our duty to talk to them both. We have three bodies, Doctor."

  The Colonel left no doubt that nothing and no one would stop him from doing his job.

  The nurse stepped aside, motioning Clara and the Colonel forward. Clara took her grandfather's hand in hers and squeezed it; she felt better now, seeing him conscious and alert at last.

  "You'll bury us all, old friend," the Colonel said in greeting.

  Alfred Tannenberg's eyes were sunken, and the pallor of his cheeks showed that death wasn't far off, but the fire in his eyes left no doubt that he would fight to the last.

  "What happened?" he asked.

  "Only you can tell us that," the Colonel replied.

  "I don't remember anything useful. Someone came over to my bed; I thought it was the nurse. They flashed a light in my face, then I heard noises, like slaps or cracks, and I tried to sit up, and then . . . I'm not sure. I think I managed to pull off the oxygen mask. I couldn't see anything . . . It's all confused, I can't remember. . . . But I know someone was here, right next to me. They could have killed me. I want you to punish the guards. They're worthless, worse than worthless—my life isn't safe in their hands."

  "Don't worry about that, I've seen to them already. They'll be sorry for the rest of their miserable lives for having allowed this to happen," the Colonel assured him.

  "I hope this hasn't affected the work—Clara may still find what we're looking for," Tannenberg said.

  "Picot is leaving, Grandfather."

  "No. He stays here," the old man declared.

  "No, we can't do that. It would ... it would be a mistake. It's best that he go; I'll stay as long as I can, but you have to leave for a hospital. The Colonel agrees with me."

  "I'm staying here with you!" Tannenberg cried.

  "You should reconsider, old friend; Dr. Najeb insists that we take you out of here. I personally guarantee Clara's safety. No harm will come to her, I swear that to you, but you must leave."

  Alfred Tannenberg didn't reply. He felt so tired, and he was well aware of the thin thread of life to which he clung. If they took him to Cairo, he might live awhile longer, but how much longer? He couldn't leave his granddaughter on the eve of war, because once it started, no one but he could guarantee her safety.

  "We'll see; there's time yet," he told the Colonel. "Now I want to meet with Yasir and Ahmed. What happened can't affect our operation."

  "Ahmed seems perfectly capable of seeing it through," said the Colonel.

  "Ahmed is incapable of doing anything unless he's told exactly what to do. I'm not dead yet, nor is he my heir," Tannenberg replied.

  "I'm aware of your differences, but perhaps you should be more flexible just now. You aren't well, is he, Clara?"

  Clara didn't respond to the Colonel's question. Her loyalty was to her grandfather and would be to her last breath—and she didn't trust Ahmed either.

  "Tell that husband of yours to come, Clara, and I want to see Ayed Sahadi and Yasir too. But first, ready me to meet them. Tell the nurse to help me get dressed."

  "You can't get up!" Clara exclaimed in alarm.

  "I can and I will. Do as I tell you."

  The Colonel's men had not squeezed any useful information from Fatima. She could hardly speak through her sobs but managed to tell them that she had been sitting near Alfred Tannenberg's bed and had dozed off as Samira was preparing bags of intravenous solution. She thought she heard a sound outside the room but kept dozing; she figured the men outside guarding the door had dropped something.

  Suddenly there was another sound, this one inside the room, and she woke up and turned toward Samira. She saw someone dressed completely in black from head to toe, with his face covered, and he was strangling the nurse. Fatima had no time to cry out, because the man sprang at her, covered her mouth, and hit her several times with something he had in his hand, until she lost consciousness. That was all she remembered.

  She wasn't actually sure it was a man who had attacked her, but it must have been; he was very strong. He was wearing gloves—she knew because she had tried to bite the hand that was keeping her from screaming.

  No, she didn't remember any particular odor, and the mysterious figure hadn't spoken a word. All she could recall was the sense of terror, because she was sure he was going to kill her. But Allah was great—her life had been spared, as had that of her master, Alfred Tannenberg.

  41
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  after the illuminating demonstrations of

  Mauthausen's capabilities, the party from Berlin enjoyed a wonderful dinner. The conversation was lively, but they all skirted the only pertinent topic: Germany was losing the war. They all behaved as though the Wehrmacht were a colossus that was still marching invincibly across the numb landscape of Europe. It was only later, when Alfred Tannenberg was alone with Georg, Heinrich, and Franz, that they voiced their concern in hushed tones, devising plans to escape when Hitler lost the war.

  "I'm warning you," Georg said, "you must be prepared. I've already told Franz to ask for a transfer to general headquarters. His father's influence and mine will be enough. What he must not do, under any circumstances, is return to the front."

  "Are you certain we will lose?" asked Alfred uneasily. "Don't believe Goebbels' propaganda; we have lost already. Our soldiers have begun to desert. Hitler doesn't seem to understand what is happening, and his advisers are too frightened to tell him.

  "We must be practical, we must face reality: The Allies will overrun Germany, and those of us who have been most loyal to the Fuhrer will pay most dearly. We must prepare to escape before that happens.

  "You all know my uncle and his scholarly renown. Before the war, a

  colleague invited him to work in one of America's secret laboratories, where they have been working on a bomb that could end the war; our scientists are at work on it too, but I fear it will not come in time. But we're lucky—the American has gotten in touch with my uncle again and offered him safe passage out of Germany. There are powerful people in his country who are willing to be generous and pardon any scientists who will work with the United States. My uncle was dubious at first, but I encouraged him to stay in touch with this American, who may be very useful in helping us escape."