"What about us, though?" asked Picot with a note of worry.
"You will be leaving Baghdad the day after tomorrow at first light. Karim, my assistant, is the Colonel's nephew, and he'll make sure you run into no problems; he'll accompany you to the air base if I don't get back in time. But I should be back tomorrow evening—with Clara, if possible."
Ahmed then excused himself. He had drunk too much—his head was spinning, he felt like throwing up, and his eyes burned. He knew that the best thing he could do was try to get some sleep.
Picot suggested that the group retire to the bar for a nightcap, and almost everyone came along. Only Ante Plaskic refused. He said good night and went up to his room.
"What a strange guy," Miranda said as she watched him cross the lobby toward the elevators.
"He is," agreed Picot. "I think my intuition about him may have been right all along. All these months he hasn't made one attempt to be pleasant or sociable with the rest of us. He's been totally distant."
"He was good at his job, though," said Marta, in his defense. "Without him, none of the data would have been catalogued. And he's always been polite; he's done everything we asked him to do. I don't think it's fair to criticize him for not being friendly, especially when no one seemed to like him from the start. It's not as though any of us went out of our way to make him feel welcome," she insisted.
"Whatever," Picot said. "I still think he's strange."
They sat up until late, drinking and talking about the war.
Three helicopters hovered over the yellow sand, just a few yards from what remained of the archaeological camp.
Clara, standing beside the Colonel, waited with a distracted look for the delegation to land. She'd been informed that the government had sent its most distinguished representatives to attend her grandfather's funeral: several generals, two ministers, and several members of Saddam's own family.
As they filed toward her from the helicopters, they all grasped her hand and expressed their condolences. Iraq, they said, had lost one of its best friends and most distinguished citizens. But Clara hardly heard their words of comfort; in fact, it was hard for her to understand what they were saying at all. She was so overcome with grief, her heart so dulled, that she found it almost impossible to concentrate on what was happening around her.
She could not erase the image of her grandfather's slit throat and horribly wounded body from her mind. Whoever had done it had made certain not just to kill him but to hurt him to exact revenge for who knew what offense.
Until now she had never in her life felt alone, not even when her parents died. She couldn't bear the pain of this ceremonial confirmation that her grandfather would no longer be with her, and she could find no consolation in any of the words she heard—not even in the heartfelt attentions of Fatima, who held her in her arms like a little girl trying to give her some sense of comfort.
Ahmed came up and kissed her softly on the cheek, then took her arm and led her back to the house. Clara offered no resistance. She didn't care one way or another whether Ahmed was there, although Fatima had urged her to let her husband try to help her, at least for appearances' sake.
Once they reached the house, Fatima served tea and sweet pastries to the men as they waited to form the funeral cortege that would bear Tannenberg's casket to his grave.
At first Clara had considered asking the Colonel to helicopter her and the casket to Cairo, so that her grandfather might be buried there. Then she realized that her grandfather wouldn't have cared where he was buried; one place was as good as another. She knew him well, knew that he had never had any special feeling for any place in particular. But she did believe in the value of symbols, so she decided that it was right that he be buried near the ruins of the temple where they were still so eagerly searching for the tablets that had been his obsession.
Clara didn't stay in the small living room with the men but went instead into the room where Fatima had washed and prepared the body of the man to whom she had been loyal for over forty years. The servant had done it with the same respect and reverence she'd shown when he was alive.
Clara took her grandfather's lifeless hand in hers, and she broke down.
"Grandfather, Grandfather," she moaned as the tears flowed. "Why did they do this to you?"
A soft knock came on the door, and Fatima quietly entered the room to tell her that the time had come to take the body.
Clara's weeping became more uncontrollable and she embraced the lifeless body of her grandfather as she wailed in despair.
With the help of Ahmed, Fatima pulled Clara away while the Colonel closed the casket and, with the aid of five other men, carried it to the open jeep that would drive it a few hundred yards to the grave that had been dug in the saffron-colored earth.
Dr. Najeb approached Clara and offered her a pill, which she refused. She wanted to come out of the haze she'd been in for two days, no matter how much pain she had to bear. The doctor didn't insist.
There was no religious ceremony at all, Catholic or Muslim. Nor did anyone speak a word of farewell to Alfred Tannenberg. It had been Clara's express desire that her grandfather be buried without any ceremony but the silence of the desert and the grief of those who had loved him, and she knew that of all those gathered around the grave, only she and Fatima truly had.
The men lowered the casket into the dry sand. Ahmed held Clara tightly, but as they started throwing dirt into the grave, he couldn't prevent her from trying to throw herself on top of the casket. It was finally the Colonel's firm hand that stopped her and led her away.
The return to the house took place in silence.
The Colonel seated Clara in the room that had been Alfred Tannenberg's office. Ahmed sat down next to her.
"Are you strong enough for us to have a talk?" the officer asked solicitously.
"Yes, yes ..." she replied, wiping away the tears that she couldn't seem to stop.
"Then listen to me, and listen to me as the father you no longer have, for your grandfather was everything to you. Ahmed has told me that you know about your grandfather's business dealings; if that's true, then you will understand that we cannot stop the operation that is under way Your husband will take over and manage it, and you will go. In my opinion, the sooner you leave Iraq, the better. I think you should go to Cairo, to your house there, where you will be safe until all this is over. You can also work on the exhibit that Professor Picot is planning. I can't say what Iraq will be like within a month; I do not even know whether we will still be alive, but I am trusting Picot to keep his word and make you the co-director of the exhibit." "I don't want to leave," Clara murmured.
"Clara, look at me. It would be madness for you to stay here unless you want to die. I must advise you to leave; your grandfather would have done the same."
"I want to stay for a few more days."
"A few more days, then, but you must leave Iraq before March twentieth. And I also warn you—I cannot leave many soldiers here. Soon every available man, including those in this village, will be called up to serve in the armed forces. The twentieth, Clara. If you wait any longer, I will not be able to get you out of Iraq," said the Colonel gravely.
Once the helicopters had gone, Clara felt better. The delegation from Iraq had been in Safran for barely five hours, but she felt a desperate need to be alone, to not talk or listen to anyone, so that she could try to pull herself together and begin to face life without her grandfather.
Gian Maria had remained at a respectful distance during the burial, in fact during the entire time Saddam's representatives had been there. He had been able to speak to Ahmed for a few minutes, and he'd assured him that he would take care of Clara and try to persuade her to go back to Baghdad as soon as possible.
Ahmed had asked him to call when they needed transportation back to the capital or, if necessary, straight to the Jordanian border.
The leader of the village sent a boy to ask to meet with Clara. He wanted to know whether his men
were to keep working the excavation or return to their normal lives; some of them had already received orders to report for military mobilization.
Clara met with him; with her were Fatima, Ayed Sahadi, and Salam Najeb, whom the Colonel had charged with watching over her.
To the distress of Fatima and Dr. Najeb, Clara assured the village leader that the archaeological work would go on for a few days more and that she needed all the men available; she was willing to double their wages if they worked night and day.
When the leader left, Ayed asked her if it wouldn't be best to end the dig now.
"We will stay for a few more days, and for that length of time we'll work as hard as humanly possible. We may yet find what we're looking for."
No one dared contradict her. Ayed assured her that they would work hard, but he cautioned her that it would be with fewer laborers than they'd had, since many of them had been mobilized. But that didn't seem to faze Clara—she would dig alone if she had to.
Lion Doyle tossed in his sleep. He couldn't decide whether to stay in Baghdad.
After returning from Safran, Ahmed had told the group that Clara had insisted on staying for a few more days, despite his and the Colonel's advice. She'd agreed to leave Safran soon, though, and Lion asked himself whether it was worth trying to kill her in the confines of Baghdad or better to wait for her to meet Picot in some European city, where it would be much easier to eliminate her. Getting into Iraq had been easy; what would be tough would be leaving if the damned war broke out. So either he left with the archaeologists or he figured out a way for himself later, which he had no idea how to do.
lb stay, he'd need an excuse. But that, he told himself, wouldn't be hard—he'd just tell everyone that he was going to keep working. He decided to call London to consult with the director of Photomundi. They'd already have his fax and have passed it on to Tom Martin, but still, he'd feel better if he could speak to them directly, so there'd be no doubt that Tannenberg was dead. His excuse would be that he was calling for instructions—he'd leave it to Tom Martin whether he stayed or went.
Ante Plaskic's decision to stay in Baghdad had been simple. He'd overheard the cross-table conversations during dinner, so he knew that Clara would be back in the city soon. He only needed to learn whether she was coming back with those damned tablets they'd all been after. If she was, he had to get his hands on them and leave Iraq immediately. He was determined to finish the job that he was going to be paid so generously for.
He wondered who Tannenberg's killer was, and he kept coming back to the photographer, Lion Doyle, although he also suspected the foreman, Ayed Sahadi. He thought it was more likely that it had been
Sahadi, who could have been paid by almost anybody to take revenge on the monstrous man that Alfred Tannenberg had been.
It wasn't likely that Clara would find the tablets, but he couldn't run that risk so he was going to stay. He'd tell Picot that he'd run into some friends and would be going back a day or two later. He didn't really care whether the archaeologist believed him or not.
46
it was late, and tom martin had just gotten back
from a meeting in Paris, but he stopped by his office the minute he left the airport—his secretary had called him to say a fax from Iraq had come in. Even though the fax's message was clear enough, he wanted to hear the news direct, so he picked up the phone and called the director of Photomundi.
The man was sleeping when the telephone jolted him awake.
"Hello?" he answered groggily.
"Hey, it's me."
"What time is it?"
"Two."
"You're working at this hour?" asked the grumpy director. "I work twenty-four hours a day. Listen, have you gotten anything else from your man in Baghdad?" "No."
"Not even a phone call?" "Nothing."
"Get yourself to the office. He'll be getting in touch with you." "At this hour?" the man protested.
"Do what I tell you—get going. I'm expecting news, and I know we're going to get it tonight."
The director of Photomundi grumbled, but he rolled out of bed. He couldn't tell Tom Martin where to shove it because he was a good customer, one of the best. If Martin told him to get up and go to the office at two in the morning, he got up and went to the office. He jumped into the shower, hoping that would revive him.
He was putting on his jacket when his cell phone rang. He recognized Lion Doyle's voice immediately, and he hit the record button so he could make sure Tom Martin heard the whole conversation.
"So, how're things at home? Get my fax?"
"Yes, thanks a lot. How are you?"
"Surprised you haven't called. Ready to get back home—especially because of what's gone down these last few days. You don't know how terrible things have been. You know Clara Tannenberg, the archaeologist who was co-financing the expedition with Picto? Well, her grandfather was murdered. Somebody just sneaked in and slit his throat—did the same thing to a nurse taking care of him. He was sick, dying of cancer, so nobody can figure out why anybody would kill him instead of just letting him die. But they did. There were guards all over the place, but they turned out to be useless. You can imagine what it's been like— although now, fortunately, we're back in Baghdad, getting ready to fly to Jordan later this morning. Unless you want me to stay and do some kind of special report or something. There's always something to shoot. By the way, I took some shots of what happened in Safran—you probably won't be able to sell them, but you never know. . . ."
The director of Photomundi made encouraging noises at everything Lion said, then told him he'd call around to some news agencies and newspapers and see whether they were interested enough in his shots for him to stay. He'd call back—Lion needed to stay off the phone for a while so he could get through.
By three, Tom Martin was listening to the recording of the conversation.
He grinned when he heard Lion's story. What an actor, he thought.
Lion had done at least half the job—the hardest part, killing Alfred Tannenberg—so, Tom thought, his clients were going to be very pleased. Of course, he'd have to contact them right away to find out whether they wanted to forget about killing Clara Tannenberg or whether she had to die too. He didn't care one way or another, but he had to say that killing a man like Tannenberg was quite a feat in a country like Iraq, where the target was one of Saddam's favorites.
Hans Hausser was sleeping the light sleep of a man whose youth was behind him. He awoke immediately when one of his several cell phones rang—it had to be news of Alfred. He turned on his bedside light and answered before the third ring.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Burton?"
"Yes." Hans felt a twinge of indigestion. He looked at the clock: four-fifteen.
"This is Tom Martin." "Yes."
"The job has been done—well, half the job, the most important part, shall we say. The principal objective has been ehminated." "Are you certain?" "Absolutely certain." "Do you have proof?" "Of course; it's on the way."
"And what happened to . . . to . . . the other part?"
"Just getting this far has been a miracle. Do you know what the conditions are in the place where this happened?"
"I don't care. When will the rest of the job be done?"
"That's why I'm calling you; maybe it can be done here in Europe. Over there, it's much harder, given the circumstances; there are risks. But if you wish, we can try. I'm calling you for instructions—we can either wait awhile for the second part to be completed in Europe or we can try again abroad. But I want you to know that the possibilities abroad are not good."
The professor breathed deep to gain some time; he didn't know what to say. He couldn't make this decision by himself; he needed to consult the others.
"Give me a few minutes. I'll call you back."
"I'll be waiting, but I need an answer before six, my time."
"You'll have it long before that."
Carlo Cipriani had been at a dinner with some old fri
ends of his, doctors, and when he got back home he'd sat down to read for two or three hours and enjoy the evening's silence. When he heard the phone ring hours later he jumped up and answered it immediately.
"Carlo..."
"Hans?"
"Yes, old friend, it's me. It's done. He's dead." "You mean . . ."
"He's dead, he's dead. I just got the call. And there's proof." "Are you certain?" "I'm certain. It's done."
They fell silent, not knowing what to say, both men searching deep within themselves for some special emotion. But they couldn't find it, despite having waited almost their whole lives for this moment.
"The monster is dead," Carlo finally murmured, almost to himself.
"He's dead, Carlo. And we did it," Hausser said, his voice emotionless. "But you know, I feel empty inside."
"And yet..."
"And yet we had to do it—we couldn't have died in peace otherwise."
"Have you called Bruno and Mercedes?"
"No, I called you first. We have to make a decision about his granddaughter."
"She's still alive?" Carlo asked.
"Yes. There were difficulties enough, apparently, with the first half of the job. They're asking me whether they should pursue her over there or whether to do it here, in Europe. Apparently she'll be staying here for some time."
"Staying where?"
"I don't know, but she's leaving where she is now." They had already said too much—Hans didn't want to be more specific on the phone.
"So what do you think we should do?"
"I don't know; we could leave things as they stand, or . . ."