The Bible of Clay

  Bombs and antiaircraft shells lit up the nighttime skyline of Baghdad. Sirens terrified the civilians of the city, who were huddled together in their homes.

  The team passed other military vehicles but attracted no attention. At last they reached the back door of the National Museum. Within seconds, they were inside.

  Most of the guards had left hours ago, but some of them had insisted on staying that night. The noise of the bombs and the flickering of the lights as electricity came and went didn't seem to faze them— they'd disconnected the alarm system and the museum was as open to marauders as a jar of candy on a table.

  The men in ski masks—carrying nylon, plastic, and felt bags—went from floor to floor, carefully selecting the artifacts from Ahmed's list. No one spoke. Following explicit instructions from the Colonel, the man in charge made sure that none of the artifacts was damaged—and especially that none of his men gave in to temptation and pocketed some small item.

  In less than fifteen minutes the team had bagged dozens upon dozens of artifacts: finely carved marble panels, ancient weapons, tools, terra-cotta urns and vases, tablets, statuettes, and bas-reliefs in basalt, sandstone, diorite, and alabaster, objects fashioned of gold and silver and wood, cylinder seals . . . There was so much loot they could hardly carry it.

  Then, as quickly as they'd entered, they left. No one within a thousand miles of Iraq would suppose that the country's entire artistic and historical patrimony was being stolen.

  Ahmed was waiting impatiently in his darkened office. When his cell phone rang, he felt his heart race.

  "Team One: We've got it—we're moving out," the leader of the commando team reported.

  "Did everything go as planned?"

  "Like clockwork."

  Two minutes later another call came in—the second team had just left the museum in Mosul. As in Baghdad, there'd been no problem getting in and out within scant minutes. Other calls—from Kairah, Tikrit, and Basra—came in. Throughout the country, Alfred Tannenberg's commando teams had successfully completed their missions, and their bags now contained the soul of Iraq, its history—indeed, a good part of the history of humanity.

  Ahmed lit a cigar. Beside him, the Colonel's nephew was talking on his cell phone, informing his uncle of the operation's success. Ahmed, however, would postpone celebration until each team reached its destination—Kuwait, Syria, Jordan . . .

  The two men were alone in the ministry building; the Colonel had ordered them not to leave. They had lowered the blinds and closed the windows to minimize, as much as possible, their exposure to the bombs falling all over the city.

  How were they to get out of Iraq? The Colonel had assured Ahmed that Ayed Sahadi would get him out when the time came, but there had been no word from Ayed. By now he might well be fighting with his unit, or he might have even gone with the Colonel to Basra, at which point he would try to make his way on to Kuwait. With Tannenberg dead, Ahmed didn't trust the Colonel—he didn't trust anybody, in fact, because he knew that he had no authority over any of Tannenberg's associates in this operation. If they felt they had to sacrifice him, they would do so without a second thought.

  Paul Dukais lit up a cigar in his office in New York. He'd just gotten a call from Mike Fernandez confirming the success of the operation.

  "We've done the impossible—now it's up to you guys to do what's merely difficult," the former Green Beret had joked.

  "I hope we can make you proud," Dukais replied, his mood elated. "You guys did good."

  "Yes, sir, we did."

  "Any casualties?"

  "Some of the teams had to defend themselves, but nothing serious." "Good—as soon as you're out and back home, your mission is over."

  The president of Planet Security was delighted with the night's work. Based on the two percent commission he was taking from the sale of every artifact, this cargo was going to make him a fortune.

  Robert Brown and Ralph Barry were putting together the annual report on the Mundo Antiguo Foundation when Dukais called them with the good news. The two men celebrated with a scotch—if George Wagner didn't smile at this, Ralph Barry thought, then he'd never smile at anything.

  "So, Paul, now what?" Robert Brown asked.

  "Now the merchandise gets crated up very carefully, and within a few days it'll land. Some of it will go directly to Spain, some to Brazil, and some here.

  "Ayed Sahadi's got a detailed list explaining which lots are going where. If there are no problems—and there's no reason there would be—we'll have pulled this thing off."

  "What do you know about Ahmed?" Robert Brown asked.

  "He'll be taken out of Iraq as soon as our boys go in—a matter of days."

  "Are you sure they'll be able to get him out? He was one of Saddam's select few."

  "Ahmed was one of the select few that Tannenberg drew into Saddam's inner circle—let's not forget that," Dukais answered cynically.

  "Of course, of course. And we have to appreciate his expertise—it was a tremendous help." Brown nodded. "And what about Clara?"

  "Don't worry, we'll find her. Nobody carrying such an archaeological treasure can disappear forever. The Colonel is looking for her, and I've got another, very special man on the search too. He's been close to her over the last few months. If anybody can find her, he can."

  "And he's in Baghdad?"

  "My man? Oh, yeah—he stayed with Clara. Don't worry, he'll find her."

  "What worries me is the Bible of Clay."

  "If we find Clara, we find the Bible—and we'll make her an offer for it that she can't refuse," Paul Dukais laughed.

  Clara was becoming stir crazy in the tiny hotel room—she hadn't been out in two days. She was afraid that at any moment the door would open and the Colonel would walk in and shoot her point-blank. She hadn't seen Miranda after their argument, although Gian Maria intimated that the reporter had been worried about her. At least she hadn't told anybody Clara was right there in the hotel.

  Gian Maria, in turn, was dodging Ante Plaskic's questions regarding Clara's whereabouts. The Croatian didn't trust him, and the priest had finally realized that Ante's insistent questions were decidedly suspicious. Fortunately, the confusion surrounding the war had given Gian Maria a little break—everyone had enough to do just staying alive.

  "Ayed hasn't been back," Clara complained.

  "Don't worry—we'll get out of here somehow," the priest consoled her.

  "How? Don't you realize that we're in the middle of a war? If the Americans win, they'll detain me, and if Saddam wins . . ." Her voice trailed off worriedly.

  "You must put your faith in God, Clara. Thanks to him we've survived so far."

  Clara didn't want to hurt the priest's feelings by telling him that she didn't trust God in the slightest, she trusted only her own abilities, so she just nodded and said nothing.

  She worried about Fatima. The older woman was hardly eating, and she was growing thinner by the day. She didn't complain, but her silence showed how much she was suffering. Clara begged that she confide in her, but Fatima wouldn't talk. She just passed her hand lightly over Clara's face as the tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Clara glued herself to a portable radio Gian Maria had borrowed from Miranda in order to pick up the BBC, but it was Gian Maria who provided her with the best information, which the war correspondents in Baghdad were getting directly from their home offices.

  After several intense days of waiting, Gian Maria announced that the Americans had reached the outskirts of Baghdad; the next day he reported that they'd taken over the airport, south of the city.

  "Where is Ayed Sahadi? Why hasn't he come for us?" Clara kept asking.

  Gian Maria had no answer for that. He'd called Ayed's telephone numbers—all of them—several times, and at first a man with a snippy voice had told him Ayed was unavailable, but in recent days the telephone rang and rang and no one answered.

  "Do you think he's betrayed me?"

  "If he had, we'd have been
arrested by now," Gian Maria argued. "Then why hasn't he come or at least sent me a message?" "Because he hasn't been able to—the Colonel may have him under surveillance."

  One afternoon when Gian Maria came in, Miranda was with him. "Your Croatian friend is asking a lot of questions about you," she told Clara.

  "I know, but Ayed warned me about him—said he couldn't be trusted."

  "He thinks you're here, but I suppose that was one secret you couldn't keep forever," Miranda told her.

  "And who told him that?" Clara shot her an accusatory glance.

  "The hotel is full of Iraqis," Miranda said. "My colleagues hire them as interpreters; others have befriended them. And, of course, the hotel employees are harboring their entire families here because they know the Americans won't bomb this hotel. That's why nobody in housekeeping cares that you're here—they figure you're just taking shelter, like everybody else. Gian Maria didn't have to be so generous with his tips—they'd have looked the other way anyway.

  "So sooner or later your friend Ante Plaskic was going to find out. Honestly, not ten minutes ago he stopped me in the lobby to ask about you again. When I told him I didn't know anything, he told me he knew you were here, in Gian Maria's room. I lied—I told him Gian Maria had taken in some other people, refugees, but I doubt he believed me. I wouldn't have. I just wanted to tell you, so you'd know."

  "What can we do?" Gian Maria asked Miranda.

  "I don't know. I don't understand why you don't trust him—but anyway, he's determined to find you, so he'll be up here any minute to find out whether I was lying."

  "Then I've got to get out," Clara said determinedly.

  "But you can't! They'll catch you!" Gian Maria cried in alarm.

  "I'm tired of this!" Clara shouted.

  "Calm down!" Miranda barked. "Getting hysterical isn't going to help."

  "Let her hide in your room," Gian Maria implored Miranda. "It'll be for just a few hours."

  "No—I'm sorry, I told you I want no part of what you're doing."

  "Look," Clara said, "you know as well as I that there's word from the reporters that the National Museum has been looted. If I give these tablets up, they'll end up in the hands of the highest bidder."

  Miranda didn't say anything as she weighed Clara's argument.

  "All right, then, go to my room, but just until this Croatian is convinced you're not staying here. Here's the key—I'm leaving; they're waiting for me downstairs. I'm not sure if you've heard yet, but there are American units raiding some of the suburbs. They'll be entering the city any minute."

  "Be careful," Gian Maria told her. "And thank you."

  Miranda looked at him and left without a good-bye.

  When she came back several hours later, she found Clara and Fatima sitting on the bed in her room.

  "They've started razing statues of your friend Saddam," were the first words out of her mouth.

  "Who?" Clara asked.

  "The Iraqis."

  "The Americans must have paid them," Clara mused aloud, as Fatima began to weep softly again.

  "It's being filmed by television crews from all over the world," Miranda said. "The Americans have taken control of almost the whole city, without nearly the resistance anyone anticipated. A day that'll go down in history," Miranda told them, her voice caustic.

  "I don't know what to do ... ," Clara said softly.

  "What can you do?"

  "Where is Saddam?" Fatima asked all of a sudden, surprising the two women.

  "Nobody knows—in hiding somewhere, in all probability," Miranda told her. "Officially, the war has been won by the coalition troops, but there are guerrillas all over the city still shooting, and some army units haven't surrendered yet."

  "Then who is leading the country?" asked Fatima.

  "Right now, nobody. Baghdad is a city at war: The winners haven't taken control yet and the losers still haven't completely given up, although a lot of Iraqis have taken to the streets to welcome the Americans. In situations like this, it's hard to tell what's happening— confusion is the only constant," Miranda explained.

  "Are the borders open?" asked Clara.

  "I don't know, but I'd guess not. I'll bet there are lots of Iraqis trying to flee to neighboring countries."

  "And you—how long will you be staying in Iraq?" Clara asked Miranda.

  "Until my boss pulls me out. When this stops being news, I'll be out of here—but whether it's a week or a month, I couldn't say."

  The long conversation consisted of one lie after another. Gian Maria knew he hadn't convinced Ante that he knew nothing of Clara's whereabouts. He told Plaskic he could have a look at the room, mistakenly thinking that would satisfy him.

  "Don't you dunk the time has come for us to get out of here?" Ante had asked.

  "Easier said than done," the priest had answered. "First they'll have to reestablish transportation—the roads have been bombed and no traffic is allowed to cross the borders—and then, finding a car to take us out... I don't know, I think it's too soon. It's still dangerous to be out on the streets, much less the highways."

  "Let's ask Miranda," Ante had insisted. "I heard some of the reporters saying that as soon as the Americans declare victory, they'll be out of here."

  "I guess we could get a lift with them, although I may stay behind to give a hand with the reconstruction—people are going to need all the help they can get. The wreckage everywhere, the families that have been destroyed, the children who have lost their parents, innocent men and women wounded . . . I'm a priest, Ante, and I'm needed here," Gian Maria had replied, trying to justify his reluctance to leave.

  On May 1, the coalition forces declared an end to the war and a coalition victory. Baghdad was in chaos, and the Iraqis were bemoaning the widespread and devastating destruction the foreigners had unleashed. The National Museum had been looted, as had almost every museum in Iraq, and many Iraqis felt that their national pride had been violated.

  Ahmed Husseini was overcome with guilt. Ayed Sahadi had told him that the stolen pieces were already outside Iraq, in safe locations, and that soon both of them would be immensely wealthy. All they had to do was wait for their contact. Paul Dukais had it all planned out— one of his men would come for them, carrying the necessary permits allowing for their timely exit, and nobody would ask any embarrassing questions.

  But before he left Iraq, Ayed Sahadi was going to do everything in his power to earn the money Clara had promised him. He hadn't gone back to the hotel for her, knowing she'd be safer there than with him, especially considering that the Colonel had eyes and ears everywhere. He had run an unnecessary risk the night he'd gone to the hotel, so he had decided to leave her there until the situation cooled. He knew that the Colonel was safely out of the country by now, across the border into Kuwait. With a new passport he'd begun his life under a new identity, as an ordinary citizen living in a luxury hotel near Cairo. Now might be the time. . . .

  When Ayed entered the lobby of the Hotel Palestina, he saw Miranda with a group of other reporters, arguing heatedly with three American officers. He waited for her to step away from the group before he approached her.

  "Miranda . . ."

  "Ayed! God, I thought you'd disappeared forever. Your friends have missed you."

  "I imagine, but if I'd come to see them any earlier, I'd have put their lives in danger. And I knew they were in good hands with you and Gian Maria."

  "Great. So you're one of those people who leave others to do the dirty work?" Miranda shot back resentfully, causing Ayed to burst out laughing.

  "Well, thank you, Miranda. Now, where are they?" "Holed up in my room again. That Croatian is searching madly for Clara, certain that she's in the hotel."

  "Don't worry—I'm here to take them off your hands." "And where are they going, if I may ask?"

  "First to Jordan, then to Egypt. Clara has a lovely house in Cairo, and her grandfather's fortune is waiting for her there—didn't she tell you?"

  "And ho
w are you getting to Jordan?" "Some friends are taking us." "What about Gian Maria?"

  Ayed shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows to signal his absolute indifference to the fate of the young priest. He had no intention of dragging him along. That wasn't part of the deal he'd made with Clara. As far as he was concerned, the priest was on his own.

  Miranda took Ayed straight up to her room—she wanted to get rid of Clara as soon as possible.

  Clara listened to Ayed's explanations in silence.

  "I'll see that nothing happens to you," he assured her.

  "If it does, you won't collect a penny," she warned him.

  "I know."

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

  Clara looked at Ayed and preempted any response. "He's coming with us. He's part of the deal."

  "I'll have to charge more—and I can't guarantee that my men will be willing to take on another passenger."

  "He comes with me," Clara said flatly.

  "And what about your friend Ante Plaskic?" Miranda asked. "Say good-bye for us," Ayed told her. "Very funny," Miranda snapped.

  No one seemed to notice Ayed Sahadi and the two Shiite women veiled in black leaving the hotel. But neither Ayed nor the two women spotted Ante Plaskic watching them from a corner of the lobby.

  The Croatian saw at once that Clara was clutching a bag tightly to her side—inside which, he was certain, was the Bible of Clay. All he had

  to do was follow her and take the tablets—the easy way or the hard way. He figured that would mean killing Ayed, but that was a detail he could live with. And then there came the priest, tagging along behind. Another collateral casualty, but war was war. . . .