The Bible of Clay Page 7

  "My friend, there are things one can't talk about. I just want the name and address of one of those agencies that hire men willing to do anything."

  "When you say 'anything,' what are you talking about?"

  "What we want is someone who can defend himself, because he may be going into the lion's den. Going to the Near East these days is not like going to Disneyland. Depending on what your investigation uncovers, the destination may be Iraq. How much do you think a life is worth in Iraq today?"

  "You're lying. I still have my cop's instincts, you know."

  "Luca, I want you to put me in contact with one of those agencies, that's all. And I want to be able to count on you not to say anything about this to anyone—consider it privileged information. You told me yourself that if there was a war, you couldn't have your men there; it was you who suggested that we hire specialists."

  "There are a couple of companies made up of former members of the SAS. The Brits are very professional; I prefer them to the Yankees. In my opinion, the best of them all is Global Group. Here," he said, handing Carlo a business card, "this is their address and telephone number. Their headquarters is in London. You can ask for Tom Martin, tell him I referred you. We've known each other a long time. He's a good guy—tough as nails, not easy to pull one over on, but good at what he does. I'll tell him you're going to call." Luca took a sip of hot coffee. "He'll charge you a fortune."

  "Thanks, Luca."

  "Don't thank me—I'm worried. I can't figure out what you and these friends of yours are after. The one who really scares me is the woman, Mercedes. There's not a drop of human kindness in that woman's eyes."

  "You're wrong about her. She's a wonderful woman."

  "Either way, you're about to get in over your head in this, whatever it is. If you do, I'll help you as much as I can. I still have good contacts with the police. But be careful, all right? And don't trust anybody."

  "Not even your friend Tom Martin?"

  "Nobody, Carlo, nobody."

  "I'll keep that in mind. Now, I need another report—this one on Robert Brown. We want to know everything there is to know about this big wheel."

  "Sure, no problem. When do you want it?"

  "Yesterday."

  "I figured. Let's say three or four days." "If that's the best you can do." "That's the minimum, I assure you."

  At that same hour, in the dining room of the Hotel Excelsior, Ahmed Husseini and Yves Picot were also sitting down to breakfast.

  The two men were about the same age, both also archaeologists, cosmopolitans. Curiously enough, fate had marginalized them both, made them suspect within their own profession, though for very different reasons.

  "I was very interested in what you and your wife were saying," Picot began.

  "I'm glad to hear that."

  "Monsieur Husseini, I don't like to waste time, and I imagine you feel the same, so I'll get straight to the point. Show me, if you have them, the photos of those two extraordinary tablets you and your wife spoke about."

  Ahmed took some photos from an oversize old leather passport wallet and handed them to Picot, who examined them closely, without speaking, for a good while. There were two distinct tablets, full of the cuneiform Clara had described, signed at the top by "Shamas."

  "Well? What do you think?" asked Ahmed finally, a bit impatiently.

  "Interesting, but I'd have to see the tablets themselves in order to make any sort of definitive judgment. What is it you and your wife want?"

  "We want an international archaeological expedition to help us excavate the remains of the building that was uncovered by the bombing. We believe it may be a storehouse for tablets next to a temple, or perhaps even a room in the temple itself. We need modern equipment and experienced archaeologists."

  "And money."

  "Yes, of course. You know it's not possible to dig without money." "And in exchange?" "In exchange for what?"

  "The material, money, and archaeologists you say you need." "La ghire, Professor Picot, la gloire." "Are you joking?" asked Picot, irritated.

  "No, I'm not joking. If we find proof of Genesis as told by Abraham, the discovery of Troy and Knossos will pale in comparison." "Please. Don't exaggerate."

  "You know as well as I do how important a discovery of this magnitude would be. It would change history, with repercussions in religion and even politics."

  "And what would you and your wife gain by it? Your determination to do this now is remarkable, given the situation in your country. It's just short of insane to be planning a dig when within a few short months the Americans are going to be dropping bombs all over Iraq. And your, uh, patron, Saddam: Is he willing to allow a foreign archaeological expedition in right now to start excavating, or will he do what he so famously does—detain us all and accuse us of spying?"

  "Don't make me repeat what you know better than I—this will be the most important archaeological discovery in the last century, at least. And the war is precisely why Clara and I are so driven to begin now, before it starts. Who knows what will happen, what might be left or who

  will be in charge afterward. As for Saddam, he will most certainly allow European archaeologists to enter Iraq. It will give him prestige, even leverage. There will be no problem there."

  "Until the Americans let loose, at which point he will very quickly lose interest in archaeological missions and likely round up the foreigners. Plus, I doubt the Americans even know where Ur is—it could be bombed out of existence, and the mission with it."

  "It's your decision."

  "I'll think about it. How can I reach you?"

  Husseini gave him his card and discussed a few more details as they finished their meal. They parted with a firm, almost comradely handshake.

  Another man, sitting at the next table, absorbed in a newspaper, had managed to record the entire conversation about the war, the dig, and the pictures of two extraordinary tablets in the possession of a man named Alfred Tannenberg.

  6

  "tannenberg! tannenberg! i'm talking to you! can you hear me?"

  The young man opened his eyes and looked up blankly at the man who'd been speaking to him. "What, Professor?"

  "You should be working with the rest of the students; I assigned you to dig at the west wall, and here you are asleep."

  "I'm resting, resting and waiting for the mail. I want to know what's happening in Berlin."

  "Get back to the excavation! We all have to work. And you're no more privileged than the other students."

  "You're wrong. I'm here because my family is paying for this expedition and paying your salary. In fact, you're my employee."

  "How dare you!"

  Alfred stood, a foot taller than Professor Cohen. "You, Professor, are an insolent Jew! My father should never have entrusted this mission to you."

  "Your father has entrusted me nothing! The university sent us here!"

  "Come now, Professor, tell me who is the largest donor to our hallowed university? You and Professor Wessler have been in Syria for two years thanks to a grant from the university. You should go back. You

  should be with all the other Jews. Someday, the chancellor of the university will have to answer for his part in sending you here."

  The severe features of the middle-aged professor hardened. He began to reply when he was interrupted by the shouts of a boy running toward him.

  "Professor Cohen, come! Come! Hurry!"

  The professor waited for the boy to get to him.

  "What is it, AH?"

  "Professor Wessler sent for you; he's found something important, very important!"

  Young AH was smiling Hke the sunshine itself—he was always happy. He had been very lucky to be hired by these crazy people who were digging in the earth searching for statuettes and who seemed to take great pleasure in pieces of clay with strange inscriptions.

  Professor Wessler and Professor Cohen were the leaders of the group of university students who had come to excavate in Haran. But their dig
was coming to its end, and although nothing of great substance had been unearthed Cohen had hoped to return to Germany with something to justify all their efforts.

  Professor Cohen followed Ali to the wellhead located a few hundred yards from the archaeological site where they had been excavating over the last few months. He didn't notice Alfred Tannenberg following him, intrigued by the discovery that Professor Wessler had made.

  "Jacob, look what it says here!" Wessler said to Cohen, handing him two dusty tablets.

  Jacob Cohen took his gold-rimmed spectacles out of a metal eyeglass case he carried in one of his jacket pockets and began to run his index finger under the Hnes of cuneiform incised into a clay tablet about thirty centimeters square. When he finished reading, he looked at his colleague and they embraced.

  "Praise God, Aaron! It's real!"

  "It is, my friend, it is. And we found it, thanks to Ali."

  The boy smiled proudly. It had been he who told Professor Wessler that there was a well near the excavation site with the same squiggles as those tablets the professor was always so excited about. Wessler was curious but skeptical, knowing that the local people often used pieces of clay tablets in various structures, even their houses.

  The well looked like any other, and only expert eyes would have noticed that some of the "bricks" that Hned its walls were actually clay tablets.

  Professor Wessler began to examine them one by one, deciphering those signs that held such fascination for AH, who could barely believe that they were letters his ancestors had written.

  Suddenly the professor cried out; Ali jumped up, afraid that he had been stung by a scorpion. But Wessler was euphoric, barely able to coherently ask Ali to bring his tools so that he could pry out a couple of the bricks—an operation, as AH soon saw, that in no way affected the structure of the well wall.

  So he had run to the house where Professor Wessler slept at night, grabbed the tools, and brought them back as fast as he could. And then the professor had sent him running for his friend Professor Cohen.

  "Now we know that when the patriarch Abraham departed for the Promised Land, he took with him the story of Genesis. God had revealed it to him," declared Aaron Wessler.

  "But who is this Shamas?" asked Professor Cohen. "There is no reference in the Bible to any Shamas, and the story of the patriarchs is most detailed."

  "You're right, but these tablets are clear: S-H-A-M-A-S. There must be more—more tablets on which this Shamas inscribed the Genesis story as told to him by Abraham." Professor Wessler's excitement cooled as he tried to reason out the puzzle.

  "They must be here. Abraham spent years in Haran before moving on to Canaan; we must find them!" Professor Cohen exclaimed.

  "So Abraham himself revealed Genesis to our ancestors," mused Aaron Wessler to himself.

  "More important, my friend, is that if these two tablets are authentic, then there is a Bible, an entire Bible written on clay, inspired by Abraham."

  "A bible of clay! My God, if we find those tablets it will be the most important discovery ever made!"

  Alfred Tannenberg was fascinated as he listened to the conversation between the two professors, who in their excitement had not even noticed his presence. He wanted to tear the tablets out of the hands of those Jews, and he was about to when another young member of the expedition came running over, waving a telegram.

  "War! War! Alfred, we're at war! We are going to take back what those Polish dogs stole from us! Danzig will be part of our homeland again! Alfred—it's what we've hoped for! Hitler will make Germany great again. Here, there's a telegram for you too."

  "Thanks, Georg—at last. What a grand day! We must celebrate," the young Tannenberg exclaimed as he began to read his telegram under the worried eyes of the two professors, who had fallen silent and turned pale at the youngster's news.

  "My father says we're giving a good thrashing to the Poles," Georg declared.

  "And mine says that France and the United Kingdom are about to declare war against us. Georg, we must go back; I want to be there, we must be with Hitler. He will bring back the glory of Germany, and I want to be a part of that."

  "You're both mad!" Jacob Cohen burst out. "Germany's as much my home as anyone's. I was born there, as were my parents. What Hitler and his thugs are doing is horrific."

  The two young men turned and looked with unrestrained hatred at him.

  "How dare you insult us with this filth?" Alfred said, grabbing the old professor by his shirt front.

  "Let him go!" Aaron Wessler ordered.

  "Shut your mouth, Jewish pig!" said young Georg.

  AH contemplated the scene before him with horror. He did not know what had come over these two young men. They began beating the two professors, hitting them over and over again in a frenzy with their fists, until the two older men finally fell to the ground, covered with blood. Then Georg and Alfred turned to the cowering boy, who had seen everything. They gave each other a complicit, evil look and began kicking Ali, who tried futilely to cover his head and body against the onslaught.

  "That's enough! Enough! You're kilHng him!" Professor Cohen cried from the ground.

  At that, Alfred took out a small pistol he carried in his pants pocket and shot Cohen in the head. Then he turned to Wessler and shot him between the eyes. The last bullet was for little AH, who lay on the ground, writhing.

  "Jewish pigs," Alfred spat out as Georg looked on in amusement.

  "That's better than they deserved," replied Georg, "but I don't know how we're going to explain this to the rest of the team."

  Alfred sat down on the ground, lit a cigarette, then poked his finger at the column of smoke that rose from it and curled in the afternoon breeze.

  "We'll say we found them dead." "That's all?"

  "That's all. Anyone might have come along and killed them in order to rob them, nicht wahrF''

  "Fine ... as long as we stick to the same story." Georg glanced sidelong at his friend. "You know, you're right. Germany will realize Hitler's dream; these foreigners are sucking our lifeblood and polluting the Fatherland."

  Alfred walked toward the well. "I have something to tell you, something important that we will share only with Heinrich and Franz." "What?" asked Georg, intrigued. "Look at the well." "I'm looking at it. So what?"

  "Two pieces are missing from the wall, two bricks. Do you see? These tablets, there, lying on the ground next to the professors." "And what is so wonderful about them?"

  "According to those two old Jews, the tablets contain a revelation. It seems that the patriarch Abraham transmitted the story of Genesis to ... to his people. That means that what we read in the Bible about the creation came down to us from Abraham."

  Georg squatted down and picked up the two tablets, though he couldn't read a word of the cuneiform that covered them. He was only in his second year at the university, after all.

  Both the young men wanted to be archaeologists—all four of them, rather, because Franz and Heinrich, their best friends, did too. They had gone to the same school, had the same hobbies, had chosen the same career. Even their parents had been friends since childhood. The boys' friendship, as deep as it was indestructible, had been forged by their admission into one of Hitler's Napola schools, based on their unsullied physical and racial characteristics. They were all echt deutschen, fully German, without a trace of non-Aryan blood—an honor of the highest distinction in Hitler's Germany. History, biology, geography, mathematics, music, and sports—especially sports—were the major disciplines in the Napolas, which had taken over the buildings that had formerly housed training academies for the imperial German and Prussian high command. In the earlier academies the boys were organized into a paramilitary corps, where they played at taking a bridge, reading a topographical map, clearing a forest occupied by "enemy" troops, and marching all night long.

  The Napolas, in addition to that military purpose, were intended to educate and train the elite dreamed of by the Fiihrer. That was why boys fro
m the wealthy classes shared classrooms with boys from the working class who had distinguished themselves in their local schools with superior physique and bloodline.

  When Alfred, Georg, Heinrich, and Franz finished their studies at the Napola and passed the examination with flying colors, they had to decide what to do with their future—should they go into the army, the party, government administration, industry, or academia? Truthfully, there was never much of a choice; their fathers demanded they go on to the university and earn their doctorates.

  All four of the young men were eager to bring change to impoverished Germany, although none of them personally lacked for anything. Alfred's father was a textile manufacturer. Heinrich's was a lawyer, as was Franz's, while Georg's was a physician.

  Adolf Hitler was their hero, and a hero to their fathers and most of their friends. They believed in him and were thrilled by his stirring speeches, convinced that whatever he did would return Germany to its former grandeur.

  Alfred and Georg agreed on what they would say about the three dead bodies they had "found," and then they carefully hid the tablets. They would ask Professor Keitel, a loyal follower of Hitler and an expert in cuneiform, to reveal to them their exact content.

  Professor Keitel owed a debt to Alfred's father. His family had worked at the textile factory, and he had worked there too, until he was hired at the university as an assistant professor with the help of Herr Tannenberg, who had great influence with the university board. Keitel bore the humiliation of working with Cohen, a Jew whom he despised, because he knew that someday all the Jews would be eliminated from his society.