The Bible of Clay Page 10

  The Italian embassy filed a formal protest, and the Italian ambassador asked for an urgent meeting with Iraq's foreign minister. He was told that the minister was on an official visit to Yemen but assured that of course the police would thoroughly investigate the strange event, which seemed to the authorities to be the work of a gang of thieves.

  Nothing was found in the dead men's pockets—no documents, no money, not even a pack of cigarettes. Nothing. Their murderers had taken everything.

  Luca Marini had relived his worst days as head of the anti-Mafia police unit in Sicily, when he had to call the wives of his men to tell them that organized crime had killed one after another of their husbands. At least in those cases there had been official funerals, with the minister of justice in attendance, medals placed on the caskets, and the widows receiving generous pensions from the government. This time, the funerals would be private, there would be no medals, and they'd have to work hard to keep the press from getting wind of the story.

  "I'm sorry, Carlo," Marini said as he finished his devastating summary. "This has gone well beyond anything I could have expected or even imagined. I'm canceling our contract. You've gotten us into something very nasty, without the slightest indication that we might face murderers like these. They killed my men to send a message: Leave whoever it is you're looking for alone."

  "We'd like to help the families of these men," said Mercedes. "Tell us how much might be appropriate. I know we can't bring them back to life, but at least we can help those they left behind."

  Marini looked at Mercedes in surprise. So she wasn't as callous as she seemed. She had the practical sense that many women have, and she didn't waste time shedding tears.

  "That depends on yourselves," he replied. "Francesco Amatore left a wife and a two-year-old daughter. Paolo Silvestre wasn't married, but his parents could certainly use some compensation, since Paolo was helping them put his brothers and sisters through school."

  "Do you think a million euros would be enough—half a million for each family?" Mercedes asked.

  "That's very generous," replied Luca Marini, "but there's another matter that we have to discuss. The police here want to know why four of my men were in Iraq, who paid to send them, and why. So far I've dodged the questions as best I can, but I've been called in to the inspector-general's office tomorrow. He wants answers from me, because the minister of justice wants answers from him. And although we're old friends and he won't hold my feet to the fire more than he has to, I have to give him those answers. Now, tell me what you want me to tell him and what you want me to hold back."

  The four friends looked at one another in silence, aware of how delicate the situation was. It was just too complicated to explain to the police why a retired doctor, a physics professor, a concert pianist, and the owner of a large construction company would hire the services of a detective agency and send four men to Iraq.

  "Tell us what the most plausible version would be," Bruno Miiller suggested.

  "Well, the fact is, you've never even told me why you wanted information on this Clara, Ahmed, or Alfred."

  "That's nobody's business," Mercedes said, her voice icy.

  "There are two men dead, signora, so the police think it's become their business."

  "Luca, would you let us talk in private for a moment?" Carlo Cipriani asked.

  "Yes, of course, you can use the conference room. When you come up with something, let me know."

  He showed them into a conference room next to his office and then closed the door softly behind them.

  Carlo was the first to speak.

  "We have two choices: Tell the truth or find a plausible explanation."

  "There are no plausible explanations with two dead bodies," said Hans, "much less the bodies of two innocent men. If at least they'd been on the other side ..."

  "If we tell the truth, the jig's up, as they say in the old movies," Bruno said morosely, his voice heavy with defeat and despair.

  "I'm not willing to give up now, so let's think of a way to deal with this situation," said Mercedes. "This is not the worst thing that's ever happened to us, it's only another roadblock—tragic and unexpected, but a roadblock just the same."

  "My God, you're hard-hearted!" Carlo's exclamation came from the bottom of his heart.

  "Hard-hearted or not, here we are," she said, headstrong as ever. "We've seen worse. So instead of wringing our hands and bemoaning our fate, let's think."

  "I can't," Hans Hausser said softly. "I can't think of a thing."

  Mercedes looked at him with disgust. Then, sitting up straighter, she took charge.

  "All right, Carlo, you and I are old friends; I'm passing through Rome and I've told you that in view of the inevitable war, I want my company to be among the ones that bring home a piece of the reconstruction pie. So despite my age, I'm considering the possibility of going to Baghdad myself to see the situation firsthand and determine what the country will need postwar. You've told me I'm a crazy old woman, that that's what investigative agencies are for—they have people who are trained, who can assess the situation in a war zone. You've introduced me to another friend of yours, Luca Marini. At first I was doubtful; I preferred to hire a Spanish agency, but I finally took your advice and hired Security Investigations. We accept the Iraqis' story— Marini's men were killed in a robbery. Nothing strange about that, given the situation in Iraq. Naturally, I'm devastated and I want to help the families with a sizable amount of money."

  The three men looked at her with renewed respect. It was incredible—in seconds she had come up with a fully formed scenario. Even if the police didn't believe it, it was more than plausible.

  "Do you agree, or does somebody have a better idea?"

  They agreed to tell the story Mercedes had invented.

  Marini thought the story over when they told him. It wasn't bad, as long as no one in his office leaked the other aspects of the investigation, but his was a tight-knit group that kept its business to itself.

  "Of course," mused Marini, "we don't know what my men said before they died. More than likely, they told them they were working for Security Investigations and had been sent to follow Clara and Alfred Tannenberg."

  "Probably so," Hans broke in, "but the Iraqi police don't know anything about the real killers, nor, so far as we know, does the ambassador. In fact, the Iraqis have all but closed the case. So I see no reason for it not to be closed here."

  "Signore Marini," said Mercedes, very seriously, "we've been sent a message with the murder of these two men. A gruesome message. It's his way of showing us what he's capable of doing if we get any closer to him and his family."

  "What exactly are you talking about, Mercedes? What are Alfred— this old man—and his family capable of doing?" Luca couldn't contain his curiosity. He was tired of these four old people's mysteries.

  "Luca, it's better that you don't know the specifics. This is the best we can come up with. Help us if you think this story won't fly with the Italian police," Carlo said gravely.

  The president of Security Investigations gazed at him for a long moment. Cipriani was his doctor, an old friend who had saved his life when other doctors thought it was useless to operate, that he was a goner. So he'd help him, despite the grating abrasiveness of this woman Mercedes Barreda and how troubled he was by the entire undertaking.

  "All right, Carlo. I'll do what I can with Signora Barreda's story. I hope my friends on the police force are feeling flexible. My men's families are devastated, but they think they died because of the chaos in Iraq. Neither Paolo nor Francesco talked to them about the details of their work. Bush will have recruited two Italian families for his war against his Axis of Evil. So they, at least, won't cause any big stink, and if on top of that you're willing to pay them compensation ... all right. I'll call you and let you know how it goes with my police pals."

  "Luca, forgive me, but are you sure no one knows who hired you?"

  "Yes, Carlo, I'm sure. You didn't want any
body to know about you except me, and when I give my word I keep it."

  "Thank you, my friend," said Carlo, his voice breaking a bit.

  And without any further conversation, the four of them left Luca Marini's office and went their separate ways for the rest of the dark day.

  They each needed a few hours alone, a few hours to process all that had happened and all that was about to happen.

  Alfred Tannenberg was listening impassively to the Colonel. They had met many years ago, and the Colonel had always provided Alfred excellent service. It was expensive—very expensive—but worth it. The Colonel was among Saddam's inner circle; they were both from Tikrit, and the Colonel was assigned to state security. Tannenberg was kept well informed of the goings-on in the presidential palace.

  "Come, Alfred, tell me who sent those men," the Colonel was insisting.

  "I swear to you I don't know. They were Italians, from a company, Security Investigations, hired to follow Clara. That's all we could get out of them. They didn't know any more than that. If they had, you can be sure they'd have told us."

  "I cannot imagine that anyone would want to harm your granddaughter."

  "I can't either, but if someone does, it would probably be to get at me."

  "And you, my old friend, have many enemies." "Yes, and friends too. I'm counting on you."

  "You know you can, but I need for you to tell me one more thing. If you don't, it will be hard for me to help you protect Clara. You have powerful friends. Have you offended any of them?"

  Alfred remained impassive. "You have powerful friends too. No less than George Bush, I believe, who is going to send in his marines and push you into the sea."

  The Colonel burst out laughing as he lit an Egyptian cigar; he enjoyed their aromatic flavor.

  "I assure you," Alfred said, "that I have no idea who sent those two men. What I'm asking you to do is to redouble the security around the Yellow House, keep your antennae up for information, and help me find out who is behind all this."

  "I will help you, my friend, I will help you. But I'm worried. I think the war is coming, even if the palace thinks Bush is only blustering. My gut tells me he's going to try to finish what his father started."

  "I think so too."

  "I would like to send my wife and daughters somewhere safe. My two sons are in the army, so there is little I can do for them at the moment, but the women . . . I'm worried about what it will cost me."

  "I'll see to them."

  "You are a good friend."

  "As are you."

  Alfred Tannenberg closed the door as the Colonel left his office. It was true—he really had no idea who had sent the men to follow Clara, or why. They were Italian, which meant someone had hired them in Rome and they had followed his granddaughter to Iraq. Perhaps he himself was the target. But who was behind it? His old friends, warning him not to break the rules, signaling they wouldn't allow him what was rightfully his, the Bible of Clay?

  Yes, he thought, that had to be it—but this time they weren't going to have their way. Clara would find the Bible of Clay, and the glory would be hers. He was not going to allow anything or anyone to interfere in that.

  He felt faint, but making a supreme effort, he gathered himself and went outside to his waiting car. He mustn't exhibit any sign of weakness to his men. He'd have to postpone the trip to Egypt. The specialist there was waiting for him, to perform some new tests and operate if necessary. But he was not going under the knife again—especially now. He could be eliminated so easily under anesthesia—they could do away with him forever. His old "friends" were capable of that and more. They might still love him—old bonds such as theirs died hard—but no one could be above the rules. He, more than anyone, knew that. Besides, he thought, no matter how hard the doctors tried, it was absurd to pretend that they could extend his life indefinitely. No—he would devote whatever time remained to him to ensuring that Clara could begin her excavation and find at last the treasure he had dreamed of for so many years.

  He instructed the driver to take him to the Ministry of Culture. He needed to speak with Ahmed.

  Ahmed was on the phone when Tannenberg came into his office; Alfred waited impatiently for him to finish his conversation.

  "Good news—Professor Picot," said Ahmed when he hung up. "He won't promise anything, but he says he'll come and have a look. If he likes what he sees, he'll come back with a team and we can begin the excavation. I'm going to call Clara; we have to start organizing."

  "When is this Picot coming?"

  "Tomorrow. He's flying in from Paris. He wants to be taken directly to Safran. He also wants to see the two tablets. . . . You'll have to show them to him."

  "No, I'm not going to meet this Picot. I never see anyone I don't need to."

  "I've never known what the rule is for seeing some people and not seeing others."

  "The rule needn't concern you. I want you to see to it all; and I want this archaeologist to help. Offer him whatever you have to."

  "Alfred, Picot has plenty of money; there's nothing we can offer him. If he thinks the ruins at Safran merit his help, he'll come. If he doesn't, there's nothing we can do to convince him."

  "What about Iraqi archaeologists?"

  "You know we've never had top-notch archaeologists. Only a few of us are any good at all, and those who could, left the country a long time ago. Two of the best are teaching at American universities, and now they're more American than the Statue of Liberty—they'll never come back. Don't forget that for months those of us employed by the government have been working for half pay. This isn't America, where there are foundations, banks, businesses that finance expeditions. This is Iraq, Alfred, Iraq. You're not going to find any archaeologists available except me and one or two more—and those one or two will help us only grudgingly."

  "We'll pay, then, we'll pay well. I'll speak with the minister. You'll need a plane to go to Safran or, better yet, a helicopter."

  "We can go to Basra and then to—"

  "Let's not waste time, Ahmed. I'll speak with the minister. What time does Picot arrive?" "I'm not sure—sometime in the afternoon." "Take him to the Hotel Palestina."

  "Can't we invite him to stay with us? The hotel has seen better days."

  "Iraq has seen better days. Let's be civilized European-style. In Europe no one would invite a stranger to stay with them, and we don't know Picot. Besides, I don't want anybody wandering around in the Yellow House. We'd wind up running into each other, and so as far as Picot is concerned, I don't exist."

  No one contradicted Alfred Tannenberg. Ahmed would do as he said, as he always did.

  "Did the Colonel have anything to say about the men who were following Clara?"

  "No, he knows less than we do."

  "Was it necessary to kill them?"

  Alfred frowned at the question. In fact, Ahmed was surprised at himself for asking.

  "Yes, it was. Whoever sent them now knows whom they're dealing with."

  "They were after you, weren't they?" "Yes."

  "And the Bible of Clay?" "That has yet to be seen."

  "Alfred, I've never asked you—let's face it, nobody dares to talk about it—but was your son murdered?"

  "Helmut had an accident in which he and Amira were killed."

  "Was he murdered, Alfred?" Ahmed looked hard at the older man, and Alfred stared back, unblinking. He hadn't even winced when Ahmed touched the still-open wound left by the death of Helmut and his wife.

  "Helmut and Amira are dead. There's nothing more you need to know."

  The two held each other's eyes for a few more seconds, but it was Ahmed who finally looked away. Alfred's steely, icy gaze was too much to bear. The old man seemed to him more grotesque and frightening by the day.

  "Are you wavering, Ahmed?"

  "No."

  "Good. I have been as honest with you as I can. You know the nature of my business. Someday you will take charge of it, no doubt before you expect, probably before I want you
to. But don't judge me—don't do it, Ahmed. I do not permit anyone to do that, even you—

  and if you should begin to judge me, not even Clara will be able to protect you."

  "I know that, Alfred. I know what kind of man you are."

  There was no contempt nor judgment of any kind in Ahmed's tone of voice. Merely the recognition that he knew he was working for the devil himself.

  10

  at four in the afternoon, the hour of siesta, not a

  soul was stirring in Santa Cruz, the neighborhood of narrow streets and secluded plazas that more than any other barrio contained the essence of old Seville.

  The shutters on the windows of the two-story house occupied by the Gomez family were tightly closed; the September sun had heated the city to an unbearable 104 degrees, and despite the air-conditioning that cooled the interiors, no one in their right mind would have opened their home to the blazing light. It was cooler when the house was in shadowy darkness.

  The impatient messenger rang the doorbell for a third time. The irate housekeeper who finally opened the door had clearly been roused from her afternoon lethargy.

  "I have an envelope for Don Enrique Gomez Thomson. I was told to deliver it in person."

  "Don Enrique is resting. I'll give it to him."

  "I'm sorry, I can't do that. I have to be certain that Don Enrique receives it."

  "I told you I'd give it to him!"

  "And I told you that either I give it to him personally or I take it back where it came from. It's my job, dona; I'm just following orders."

  Quick footsteps sounded inside in the wake of their raised voices, and a woman appeared behind the housekeeper in the doorway. "What's wrong, Pepa?"