The Bible of Clay

  The desk clerk wasn't lying—the rooms didn't just need a coat of paint. The carpet in both was stained and musty-smelling, and the bathrooms looked as though they hadn't been cleaned in months. But they would do, at least for one night. Ante took the first room they were shown, while the clerk took Gian Maria to the second, on a higher floor.

  As the desk clerk turned to return downstairs, Gian Maria had another question. "Are the reporters from Safran still in the hotel?" The clerk told him they were.

  "Thank God. Maybe tomorrow some of them will take us in," Gian Maria said, thinking of course of Miranda. A ray of hope had just appeared on his horizon.

  Miranda was dreaming of a strange war between unknown opponents when insistent knocking on her door dragged her out of sleep. She jumped up, but as she struggled groggily toward the door she tripped over Clara, who remained sound asleep.

  "Who is it?" Miranda asked softly, and the answer surprised her.

  "It's Gian Maria—open the door, hurry!"

  The priest entered the room, looking over his shoulder, concerned that someone might be following him. He had gone back downstairs where he ran into Daniel, who gave him Miranda's room number. Although he had waited, and made every effort to be discreet, he knew he might have attracted unwanted attention.

  "Are they here? Oh, thank God!" he said upon seeing the two women asleep on the floor.

  "I hope you'll be able to tell me what's happened," Miranda told him. "These two haven't been much help."

  "If the Colonel finds her, he'll kill her," Gian Maria answered, pointing toward Clara, who seemed to be stirring and waking up.

  "But why?" Miranda insisted.

  "Because she found the Bible of Clay, and they want to take it from her," Gian Maria answered.

  "Those tablets don't belong to her; they belong to the Iraqi people," Miranda shot back.

  "So you're not going to help us?" Clara, now more fully awake, asked, sitting up.

  "It's stealing, Clara, no matter how you slice it. I can't be a party to that, even if we're on the verge of war."

  "It's mine, Miranda!" Clara said, her voice pleading, filled with anguish.

  "Either way, I don't think you're telling me the whole story."

  Clara began to explain, but Miranda cut her off.

  "And another thing—I don't understand why they're after you. Unless, that is, you want to keep something that's not yours, which makes you a thief—here or anywhere. So I'd appreciate it if you'd find somewhere else to hide. I want nothing to do with this black-market secret, and I doubt Professor Picot would approve of what you're doing."

  Miranda's words hit Clara like a pitcher of ice water. Fatima, who had woken up and sat watching the scene, covered her face with her hands.

  "And you, Gian Maria," Miranda went on, "I find your part in all this very odd. You're a priest, but you don't care if she breaks the Ten Commandments. Honestly, I don't understand you."

  Her words shook the priest, who had never questioned the fact that the tablets were Clara's. But after a few seconds, he found a way to reply to Miranda's accusation.

  "You're right, or at least partly right. But. . . well, I don't think things are quite what they seem, quite the way you're describing them. Look at my face—turn on the light."

  Miranda flicked on the lamp switch on the nightstand and gasped when she saw Gian Maria's battered and bruised face.

  "What happened to you?" she asked in alarm.

  "The Colonel wanted to know where Clara was," he answered. "And I refused to tell him."

  "I remember him from Safran."

  "Well, he's a very influential officer in Saddam's inner circle. He wants the tablets, but not for Iraq—for some sort of business deal. I imagine Clara could it explain it to us, but what I heard at the Yellow House was something about some friends in Washington and that the war is going to start tomorrow, things like that."

  "The war is starting tomorrow? How could the Colonel know that?" Miranda said.

  "It's very complicated," said Clara. "I don't know if I can explain it all. But he wants the Bible of Clay so he can sell it. So does my husband. That's why they're after me, to take it from me. I'm not stealing it, Miranda, I'm saving it. After the exhibition in Europe, I'll put it in a safe place until the war is over, then it can come back to Iraq," she said. She'd invented this story on the spur of the moment to try to assuage Miranda's doubts.

  "Your husband is corrupt too? Come on, Clara!"

  "Think whatever you want. If you aren't going to help me, Fatima and I will go, but at least let us stay till daylight. If we're seen out in the street now, we'll be arrested. Ayed promised to come and get us out of here—it was his idea for us to come here in the first place. But don't worry; as soon as the sun is up, we'll leave, I promise."

  Miranda stood looking at Clara, not knowing quite what to do. She didn't trust her—in fact, she didn't like her, and sensed that behind all the high-minded promises and desperation, there was some sort of imposture.

  "At first light, you're out of here," she finally said.

  "Fine. But please, at least help Gian Maria," Clara asked.

  "No, I don't need anything, don't worry," Gian Maria said.

  "Yes you do. You have to get out of Iraq tomorrow morning, before the invasion. If you stay here, they'll kill you. Or did the Colonel let you come here?" Clara asked.

  "No. He left Ante Plaskic and me lying on the floor bleeding after we were interrogated. Ayed persuaded him that you're more than familiar with the Colonel's methods, so you'd never have told us where you were going. That seemed to satisfy him, so he left us. Your husband seemed desperate; he's with the Colonel, but I think he wants to try to help you."

  "He doesn't want to help me—he wants the Bible of Clay."

  "Ahmed is not a bad man, Clara," Gian Maria told her.

  "How touching!" Miranda interrupted. "You people are—" She stopped, searching for words, then gave up and dropped her hands to her side in frustration. "As for the war starting tomorrow, are you sure?"

  "My understanding is that it's going to start on the twentieth," Clara said quietly, "which means that Gian Maria still has time to get out of Iraq if he leaves first thing tomorrow."

  "And how can you be so sure the war will start on the twentieth?" Miranda insisted.

  "The Colonel said it would."

  "But the Colonel is an officer in Saddam's army, not the Americans'—I doubt he knows the exact date the war is going to start. . . unless ..."

  "What planet are you living on, Miranda?" asked Clara bitterly.

  "Me? What about you?"

  "I'm living on the one where business decides who lives and who dies—good, profitable business. A lot of people are going to make a lot of money on this war," Clara answered angrily.

  "You know, it's spoiled brats like you who make ordinary people miserable," replied Miranda contemptuously.

  "Please! Please!" Gian Maria tried to calm things. "This is absurd. Look, we're all on edge."

  "On edge? Did you just hear what she said? This woman doesn't care about anything but satisfying her own needs and saving her own life. So far as I'm concerned, she's as bad as her grandfather."

  Miranda's declaration stunned them all into silence. It was two or three hours before dawn, and the tension in the room was beginning to be unbearable for them all.

  Clara ignored Miranda and turned to Gian Maria.

  "Will you go? Please?"

  "But what about you? I want to help you."

  "Gian Maria, all our chances are slim at best. Together we have none. Do you think I can get out of Iraq with a priest? Do you think you're invisible? It won't be long until the Colonel tracks us down. I have one chance, and I can't afford to risk it because of you. Nor can you jeopardize your own safety."

  "I don't want anything to happen to you because of me; I just want to help you," Gian Maria insisted.

  A knock at the door shocked them into silence. Miranda waved all three into the
bathroom, then opened the door.

  Ayed Sahadi looked nervous as he pushed his way into the room without saying a word. When the door was closed, he asked, "Where are they?"

  "Who?"

  "I don't have time to play games! Where's Clara?"

  He strode over to the bathroom door, opened it, and smiled in spite of the fraught circumstances. Gian Maria, Clara, and Fatima were huddled together in the shower. Fatima was clearly terrified, Gian Maria worried, and Clara, as always, defiant.

  "Come on, we're leaving," he ordered Clara and Fatima.

  "I want to go with you," Gian Maria insisted.

  "You'll be the death of us all," Clara said, exasperated.

  "Can you help him get out of here?" Ayed asked Miranda.

  "How? Just tell me how I can do that. According to Clara, the war is going to start within a day. Trying to get to the border would be suicide."

  Ayed looked at Clara reproachfully, astounded that she had chosen to tell a reporter that the war was about to start. "He can stay here—the Americans know that the press has hunkered down here. The hotel is safe—they won't bomb it."

  "Clara, I want to go with you," Gian Maria said forcefully.

  "Gian Maria, you aren't coming. It's my life at stake, and the safety of the Bible. The answer is no. No." Clara's words left no room for argument, but Ayed continued to mull over whether there might be some way Gian Maria could be useful to them.

  "Where are you going to take them?" Gian Maria asked him.

  "You know I can't tell you that—if the Colonel decides to interrogate you again, he won't be as nice as the last time," Ayed told him.

  "But if they torture him, he could tell them that Clara went with you," Miranda pointed out.

  "He doesn't know where, so it doesn't matter. And let's hope that doesn't happen, and that we'll all be well beyond his reach. Put on your veils and follow my instructions. There are Secret Police everywhere," Ayed told the women.

  "Then how are we going to get out?" Clara asked.

  "In a carpet—actually, in two. There's a truck at the service entrance downstairs waiting to load up. You'll meet up with me later. Come on, into the service elevator."

  After checking to make sure no one was in the hall, they slipped out of the room, leaving Miranda and Gian Maria behind. The reporter looked relieved, while the priest seemed desolate.

  "Want a drink?" Miranda asked him.

  "I don't drink," he answered, his voice little more than a whisper.

  "Me either, but I've got some bottles I use to persuade people to talk to me. And I think I'm going to have one."

  She went into the bathroom for a glass, then opened the door in the bottom of the nightstand and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. She twisted off the top, poured herself a shot, and took a long swallow.

  "What exactly is Clara to you, Gian Maria?" she asked the priest abruptly.

  The priest hesitated. He couldn't tell her the truth, so at last he resorted to vagueness.

  "Nothing—it's not what you think. I have a moral obligation toward her, that's all."

  "A moral obligation? What on earth for?"

  "Because I'm a priest, Miranda, that's what for. Sometimes God puts us in situations that we'd never have expected, and that's all I can say. I won't break confidence. I'm sorry."

  Miranda accepted his answer. She knew he wasn't lying, just not telling the whole truth. Besides, she could practically see the spiritual conflict tearing him in half.

  "Is it true the war is starting tomorrow?" she asked him.

  "That's what the Colonel and Ahmed said."

  "Today is the nineteenth. ..."

  "And tomorrow is the twentieth, and on the twentieth the war is going to start."

  "And where's Ante Plaskic?"

  "In his room. The Colonel was tougher on him than he was on me. We could hardly stand up by the time his men were finished with us." "Then how'd you get here?" "Some relative of Clara's maid brought us." "And now what are you going to do?"

  "Me? I have no idea. I feel like ... I feel like I'm about to fail completely in my purpose. I can't leave Iraq without knowing that Clara is all right."

  "There's no way she's going to contact you. You heard her—you have to look to yourself."

  Rapid lmocking at the door startled them both, and as they froze in apprehension they recognized Ayed's voice outside.

  They were back. Clara was pale, Fatima was shaking, and Ayed looked furious.

  "There's no way out of here! The hotel is surrounded. The Colonel's probably posted soldiers next to the truck. The only reason they haven't caught us is because the driver didn't know anything. They'll have to stay here."

  "Oh, no—I've had enough. I assure you, whatever happens, they aren't going to stay here. Find somewhere else, some other room," Miranda told him.

  "Then go out there and tell the soldiers to come detain them," Ayed challenged her. "They either stay here or in jail."

  "They can't stay in my room!" the reporter hissed. "Not with the police here!"

  "They can stay in mine," Gian Maria said quietly.

  "You have a room? Where?" Ayed asked.

  "The fourth floor. It's terrible—dirty, just one bed, and the shower doesn't work very well—but we can make do." "What about Ante Plaskic?" Clara asked. "He's on the second floor."

  "He may want to talk to you—he might come up to your room," said Ayed.

  "Maybe, but if he does I'll put Clara and Fatima in the bathroom."

  "All right," said Ayed. "They'll go to Gian Maria's room. We have to hope the Colonel won't have the whole hotel searched." He turned to Gian Maria. "Let's go."

  The four of them left. Miranda poured herself another drink, knocked it back in one gulp, and lay down on the bed. She was beat— she needed some sleep, though she knew it wouldn't come easy. She couldn't stop thinking about her recent guests' claim that the war was going to start in twenty-four hours or less. Just how did Clara, Ayed, the Colonel, and Ahmed—all these Iraqis—know that}

  It was the telephone's ringing that woke her. Some of the other reporters were waiting for her at breakfast downstairs; they were all planning to go out to get shots of the streets of Baghdad, stories on the run-up to the war. Fifteen minutes later, her hair wet from the shower, she was downstairs in the lobby.

  The rest of the day she was nervous, unsure of what to do—should she tell the other reporters what she knew or keep quiet?

  She called her chief in London, and he confirmed there were constant rumors that the war would be under way within mere hours, but when she asked him about the twentieth specifically, he laughed.

  "If I only knew—now that would be a scoop! Day before yesterday Bush gave Saddam an ultimatum; that was the seventeenth. All the embassies are being evacuated and all foreigners are being urged to leave the country, so it could start any minute, I suppose. Call me—I figure you'll know before anyone else!"

  Miranda made no effort to check on Clara or Gian Maria. She knew they were in the hotel, on the floor below hers. She was worried about what might happen to them, but at the same time she told herself that she didn't want any part in their scheme.

  That night she sat up late talking to the other reporters, half-waiting for the bombs to start dropping. When the sky suddenly began to light up with tracer shells after a series of deafening blasts, for the first time she was truly frightened. It was March 20, and the war was under way.

  Hours later, reporters were hearing from their main offices in capitals around the world that the coalition forces had entered Iraq. The die was cast.

  51

  mike fernandez looked at his watch. the american

  and British land war in Iraq had begun, and so had the operation that Tannenberg had so meticulously planned over the last year.

  The former Green Beret told himself that it was going to go off without a hitch—not even the old man's death could stop the machine already in progress. There was a shitload of money at stake, and the
men knew they'd be paid only if they made off with the whole list and successfully delivered the material to the drop-off point. In a matter of hours, they'd all be out of Iraq for good.

  In Baghdad, at that same moment, a group of men in military uniforms was awaiting the signal to leave the warehouse where they'd holed up a few hours earlier.

  All of them had worked under Alfred Tannenberg for years. His murder shook them, but Ahmed had assured them that the operation would remain unchanged. He was now the head of the Tannenberg family, he had told them, and he expected the same level of efficiency and loyalty they had always shown to Tannenberg himself.

  The money the men would earn from the operation would assure them a comfortable future, to put it mildly, so they had all agreed to go ahead with everything as planned. What they did afterward was up to

  them. The only pledge they had made was to cross the border into Kuwait and turn over the haul to the former American army officer, a good commander who knew how to inspire trust.

  The team leader's cell phone rang; the time had come. He listened as the order came.

  "Let's move," he told them.

  They all stood up and rechecked their weapons one last time. Then they pulled ski masks over their faces and suddenly, in their black camouflage suits, became invisible in the darkness as they climbed up into the military transport truck waiting outside for them.