The Bible of Clay (38 page)

"This priest, Gian Maria—has he created any problems?"

"How did you know he's a priest?" Clara laughed then, realizing how absurd the question was. Her grandfather knew everything that happened in the camp—Ayed kept him up to date. And Alfred had other men, men of his own, who would not let a single detail escape them.

Tannenberg took a sip of water, waiting for Clara's reply. He was tired from his journey, but he was glad he and Clara had talked. They were two of a kind—she hadn't batted an eyelash when he told her that someone was probably going to try to kill her. She hadn't asked any stupid questions or acted the surprised and innocent virgin about the murky world of her family's business.

"Gian Maria is a good person, very capable. He knows the ancient languages of the region—Akkadian, Hebrew, Aramaic. . . . He's a bit skeptical about whether Abraham dictated his version of the Genesis story to a young scribe—after all, there's no mention of it in the To rah—but he works hard, without a word of complaint. And don't worry, Grandfather, he isn't dangerous."

"If there's one thing I know, it's that people aren't always what they seem."

"But Gian Maria is a priest." "Yes, that's true—we've checked."

Tannenberg closed his eyes, and Clara ran her hand tenderly over his creased forehead and down over his wrinkled cheek. "I think I'd like to sleep for a while." "Yes, do. Tonight Picot would like to meet you." "We'll see. Now go, let me sleep."

Fatima had moved Dr. Najeb into the house next door and had put the nurse into the room next to Tannenberg's, although she doubted there was anything this Samira could do that she couldn't. Fatima knew what Alfred needed even before he did. A gesture, the slightest movement of his hand, the way he held his body were signs that helped her anticipate what her master was going to ask for. But the doctor had been unbending—Samira had to be near the sick man, to care for him and advise the doctor of any contingency. And the doctor's house was within mere feet of Tannenberg's.

"What's wrong, my child?" she asked Clara as her mistress came into the kitchen looking for her.

"He's so sick. . . ."

"He will live," Fatima assured her. "He will live until you find those tablets. He will not leave you."

Clara let herself be embraced by her old servant, protectress, and friend, knowing that she could count on her, no matter what she had to face. And what she had to face now could not be more disturbing: Her grandfather had just told her that someone was going to make an attempt on her life.

"Where are the doctor and nurse?"

"They're putting together the field hospital."

"All right, I'm going out to the excavation. I'll be back for dinner."

Lion Doyle came over with a big grin on his face, his body covered in sand.

"You've heard the news, then, Clara? They've found the foundations of houses—your colleagues are overjoyed!"

"Yes, I know—I just wish I could have been here sooner. How's your photography assignment coming?"

"Better than I'd hoped, thanks. Picot has hired me."

"Hired you? To do what?"

"Apparently some archaeological journal asked him to send back field notes on the excavation, illustrated if possible, and he asked me to cover the photo spread. So my trip won't have been in vain, after all."

Clara, irritated, clenched her teeth. So Picot planned to take all the credit for himself and send off a report to an archaeological journal?

"Which journal is it?"

"I think it's called
Scientific Archaeology.
He told me they publish editions in France, the UK, Germany, Spain, Italy, the United States. . . . Apparently it's a pretty big deal."

"Yes, it is. You might say that what gets published in
Scientific Archaeology
exists, and what doesn't isn't worth the sand it's covered by."

"If you say so—this is all new to me, although I must admit I'm beginning to be infected by all this enthusiasm."

She left Lion Doyle standing there grinning and walked over to where Marta and Fabian were working.

They had dug out another sector of the temple, and they'd found a syllabary. It seemed as though the site, faced with the unflagging determination of this hodgepodge group, had at last begun disclosing its deepest mysteries.

"Where's Picot?" Clara asked.

"Over there," Marta answered, pointing to a group of workers who looked like they were scrabbling in the ground with their bare hands. Picot was standing among them, bent over to examine what they were uncovering. "He's found traces of ancient Safran's city walls."

"Clara, I think we're standing on the second level of the temple, a sort of terrace. Could be a ziggurat, but I'm not sure. There are traces of an interior wall here, and we've started to uncover what look like steps, a staircase leading inside," Fabian told her.

"We're going to need more workers," Marta declared, delighted by the sudden appearance of so much new material.

"I'll tell Ayed, but I don't think it's going to be easy: The whole country is on a state of alert," Clara replied.

Yves Picot was so absorbed in what he was doing that he didn't see Clara walk over.

"I hear it's a great day," she said to him brightly. "Everything seems to be happening at once."

"You can't imagine. The gods have smiled on us!" he practically shouted. "We've found traces of the outer wall, several courses of blocks, and right up next to them the outlines of buildings, probably houses—come here, look!"

Picot led her over the yellow sand, pointing out the remains of perfectly stacked blocks that only an expert's eye could identify as the remains of ancient houses.

"I've brought half the workers over here to clear this zone. I imagine Fabian already told you that they've made wonderful progress on the mound and that the temple looks like a ziggurat."

"Yes, I saw that. . . . I'll work over here."

"That's fine. Do you think we could possibly find more workers? If we want to clear all this with the time we have left, we're going to need more."

"Fabian and Marta told me. I'll see what can be done. By the way, the photographer, Lion what's-his-name, told me you'd put him on the payroll."

"Yes, I asked him to prepare a photo-essay on our excavation." "I didn't know you'd arranged for anybody to publish our work."

Clara stressed the "our." Picot turned to her, an amused look in his eyes, and then burst out laughing.

"Come on, Clara, be cool! Nobody's going to steal your thunder here. I know people at
Scientific Archaeology
and they asked me to keep them informed. Everybody's been curious about the Bible of Clay since you announced its existence in Rome. If we find it, it will be a landmark in the history of archaeology. We'll not only prove that Abraham existed, but also that he
revealed
the Genesis story. It will be revolutionary. Even if the tablets don't appear, the importance of the things we've found here should merit publication. We're uncovering a ziggurat that no one knew existed, and in better condition than we could have hoped for. Don't worry, this is already a success, and we all share in it. I've had more than my share of
la gloire, madame
—my career, my name is secure. You have no reason to fear that I'll steal the limelight, or the well-deserved credit, from you. But you're quite right that this is
our
work, because none of this would be possible without Fabian Tudela, Marta Gomez, and the others."

Yves then bent back down to his work without another word. Clara hesitated just a moment, and then walked off to a group clearing the sand and other sediment off another section of ground.

The sun was dropping below the horizon by the time Picot called off work for the day. The workers and team members were exhausted and hungry, and they were more than ready to return to their homes in the village or the camp for dinner.

Fatima was waiting for Clara at the door of their house, and she seemed to be in a good mood.

"Your grandfather woke up hungry, and he's waiting for you."

"I have to take a shower. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"He wants to eat dinner alone with you tonight; tomorrow he'll see the archaeologists."

"That's fine, Fatima—whatever he wants."

They were just finishing dinner when Fatima announced that Yves Picot was at the door, asking to meet Monsieur Tannenberg.

Clara was about to tell her it would have to wait until tomorrow, but Alfred interrupted her.

"Tell him to come in."

The two men measured each other in the few seconds it took to shake hands.

Picot took an immediate dislike to Tannenberg. The older man's steel-blue eyes reflected sheer cruelty, devoid of any sign of human sympathy. Tannenberg, for his part, was instantly aware of the Frenchman's strength of will and character.

Tannenberg led die conversation, so it was Picot who did most of the talking, answering the older man's pointed questions about the progress of the excavation and describing the minutiae of their findings to Alfred's satisfaction. But he was waiting for his turn to ask the questions. And at last, his opening came.

"I've been dying to meet you," he told the old man. "I can't seem to persuade Clara to tell me how or when you found those tablets in Haran that brought us all here in the first place."

"It was a long time ago."

"What year did the expedition take place? Who was in charge of it? "

"My friend, it was so long ago that I can't remember—before the war, when expeditions organized by romantics came to the Middle East more out of love of adventure than archaeology. Many of them based excavations more on intuition than research. In Haran I wasn't digging with archaeologists, I was digging with amateurs: people mildly interested in history who could afford to indulge their love of the exotic. We found two tablets on which Shamas, a priest or scribe, refers to Abraham and the creation. Ever since then, I've believed that someday we would find the rest of the tablets that Shamas pledged to make. I called them the 'Bible of Clay' "

"That's what Clara called them at the conference in Rome when she took on the leading lights of the archaeological community. And what we've been calling it ever since."

"If Iraq were experiencing a moment of peace in its history, half a dozen archaeological teams would have applied for the exclusive rights to excavate the Bible of Clay. With Saddam's blessing. With war about to be unleashed against Iraq
...
I appreciate your commitment. It took tremendous courage."

"Actually, I had nothing better to do," Yves replied with a cynical grin.

"Yes, I know—you're a wealthy man, so you have no need to face the harsh reality of a paycheck at the end of the month. Your mother comes from an old banking family, isn't that right?"

"My mother is British, the only daughter of my grandfather, who did, indeed, own a bank on the Isle of Man—a financial haven, as I'm sure you know."

"I know. But you yourself are French."

"My father is French—Alsatian, actually—so I was brought up shuttling back and forth between Alsace and the Isle of Man. My mother inherited the bank, and my father now runs it."

"And you have no interest whatsoever in the world of finance," Tannenberg stated more than asked.

"That's quite right—the only thing that interests me about money is how to spend it in the most pleasant way possible."

"Someday you'll inherit the bank, though. What will you do with it?"

"My parents are in excellent health, so I hope that day is far off. And luckily I have a sister—much more savvy than I—who's willing to take over the family business when the time comes."

"Aren't you concerned about leaving something solid for your children?"

"I have no children, nor any interest in having any." "We men need assurance that we've left something after us. A legacy, if you will."

"Some men—I'm not one of them."

Clara was sitting in silence, listening to Yves' conversation with her grandfather, and she noticed that the archaeologist was doing nothing to make the older man like him. It was Samira who brought an end to the volley. She came in, followed closely by Fatima, who was trying in vain to stop her.

"Monsieur Tannenberg, it's time for your injection."

Alfred Tannenberg looked over at the nurse angrily.

"Out."