The Bible of Clay

by Julia Navarro

  And they both were in love with Mesopotamia, a place known today, thanks to the wonders of British colonialism, as Iraq.

  Fabian's fascination with Mesopotamia began during his first visit to Paris, at the age of ten. He and his father had seen so many wonderful things in the Louvre, but when they entered a gallery lined with ancient artifacts, Fabian felt a sudden surge of interest within him. He'd never forget the impression the Code of Hammurabi had made, his father's explanation that on that stone pillar were engraved laws as ancient as human civilization, based on the lex talionis, the law of retribution. His father explained that Law 196 of the Code said: If a man put out the eye of another man, his eye shall be put out. That day, Fabian decided he wanted to be an archaeologist, to go and discover lost kingdoms in Mesopotamia.

  "So is it yes or no?"

  "It's madness," Picot replied.

  "Of course, but it's also now or never. We can only imagine what'll be left after the war."

  "If Bush is to be believed, Iraq will become an Arcadia, so we'd be able to excavate as easily as going on vacation."

  "But you and I both know that this war is going to turn Iraq into another Lebanon. You know the Middle East—the Iraqis hate Saddam, but they also hate the Americans. In fact, everywhere in the Middle East they hate all Westerners, and they're partly right to do so. We've colonized them, we've given them nothing in return, we've propped up corrupt regimes, we've sold them things they haven't needed, we've been unable to create a middle class or a real intelligentsia, and the people are poorer and more frustrated every day. The religious fanatics are having a field day—they teach for free in the madrassas, they've created hospitals to treat people who can't pay for doctors or medications. . . . The Middle East is about to explode."

  "Yes, but that doesn't apply to all of Iraq. Saddam has been a force for secularism, at least to a degree. Seriously, Fabian, will you never stop being such a child of the Left?"

  "I'm a bit too old for you to call me a child, Yves. And as for being Leftist—I doubt I'll ever stop seeing the world as it is, even from the comfiest couch in my living room."

  "So what would you do if you were on my couch?"

  "Exactly what you'd do, even if it was wrong: I'd go. And when it's over, it's over."

  "We could be incinerated if they start bombing."

  "Yes, Yves—the answer to that, though, is to get out five minutes before that happens."

  "And who would fund us?"

  "We'd have to do it ourselves. I don't think my university, or any other, would give us a penny for a dig in Iraq. In Spain, most of us are against the war, and an excavation in Iraq right now will certainly seem like madness. Just as you say, it would be like throwing money out the window."

  "Which means I'll have to finance it."

  "And I'll put together the team. Several students at the Complutense would give anything to be able to go on a dig, even in Iraq."

  "You've always told me that there are no great Mesopotamian specialists in Spain."

  "There aren't—you and I will be the specialists. What we need are lots of students who'd love to be able to say they've done some real fieldwork."

  "I'm not so sure we'll be able to find enough people to join us on this glorious adventure, Fabian. Do you think you can get a sabbatical for a year?"

  "I'm not rich like you are; I depend on my check at the end of the month. But I'll talk to the dean to see what I can manage. When would we go?"

  "Tomorrow. Today. Yesterday."

  "Could I have a real date?"

  "Next week is better than the week after. There's no time." Fabian looked at his old friend. "Well, we should probably get started, then."

  Laughing, the two friends gave each other a very American high five, then went out to celebrate with tapas in the Barrio de las Letras.

  When in Spain, Picot always stayed at Fabian's place, in a room in the attic. From the little balcony he could see all the rooftops of Madrid. Picot considered it his room, in a way, since whenever he could, he ran away to this open, happy city where nobody asked where you'd come from or where you were going.

  The morning after he and Fabian had reached their decision, Picot sat down at the desk in his friend's office and tried to call Iraq. It took a while to get in touch with Ahmed Husseini.

  "Ahmed?"

  "Yes?"

  "It's Picot."

  "Ah, Picot!" There was a pregnant silence as the Iraqi waited for the verdict.

  "I've decided to go, and there's no time to waste. I'll tell you what I need—let me know if there's anything you can't get."

  For the next half hour the two men discussed their requirements for the expedition. Though Ahmed was candid—almost brutally realistic—about what could and couldn't be found in Iraq, he did offer to finance part of the expedition.

  "You want to put your money in it?" asked Yves, pleasantly surprised.

  "It's not that I want to invest, it's that we want to cover most of the expenses. We'll finance the mission as far as we are able; you furnish the people and the equipment—that's the deal."

  "And where are you going to get the money, if it's not indiscreet to ask?"

  "The government will make an effort, because of what this mission means to Iraq at this juncture."

  "Come on, Ahmed—I don't believe that." "Believe it—it's the truth."

  "I can't see Saddam investing a single dollar looking for ancient tablets, no matter how important they are. I want to know who's paying; otherwise, I'm not going."

  Ahmed hesitated. "Part will come from the ministry . . . and part from Clara and her family. She has her own personal fortune, inherited from her parents. She's an only child."

  "Which means I have to negotiate the Bible of Clay with your wife."

  "It should be clear from the outset, Picot, that if we find the Bible, it belongs to Clara—she announced its existence to the world; her grandfather extracted the first two tablets and is investing the money needed for the excavation, no matter the cost. You'll be able to say that you were on the joint archaeological expedition with her."

  "Great, now you're imposing conditions on me? Ahmed, without me, there is no archaeological expedition."

  "Or without us either."

  "I can wait for Saddam to fall and then—"

  "Then it'll no doubt be destroyed."

  "Why didn't you tell me about these conditions when I was in Iraq?"

  "Honestly, I didn't think you'd agree to come."

  "All right—shall we draw up a contract, a document that clearly states the part each of us will play in this?"

  "That's a good idea. I'll prepare something, and then we'll talk about any changes you think should be made. Can I send it to you tomorrow?"

  "No. E-mail it to me in the next hour. We either reach an agreement now or it's over."

  By one o'clock, the two men had come to terms.

  The document made clear that an archaeological mission was being undertaken, with the aid of Professor Yves Picot, in order to excavate an ancient temple-palace in which Clara Tannenberg believed might be found the remains of tablets resembling those found during another archaeological expedition in Haran years earlier, whereupon a scribe who signed himself "Shamas" had written that Abraham was going to relate to him the history of the world.

  Ahmed made it clear that his wife was not going to allow anyone to strip her of the glory that was rightfully hers.

  After lunch, Picot strode to Fabian's office and informed him of the details of the contract. Fabian had talked to some of his best students and several other professors about what he and Picot were planning and had invited them to a meeting that afternoon. Of the twenty or so who came, eight students signed up and two or three professors said they'd talk to the dean about a leave so they could go. They promised to meet with Fabian the next day to finalize details.

  After the meeting, Picot and Fabian each picked up a telephone and began cold-calling colleagues around Europe. Most of them told
the two men they were crazy. Some said they would think about it; all of them asked for more time.

  Picot decided that he'd go to London the next day and then on to Oxford to meet personally with some friends, and then he'd return via

  Paris and Berlin. Fabian volunteered to go to Rome and Athens, where he knew some professors.

  It was Tuesday. They would reconvene in Madrid on Sunday and see what sort of team they'd been able to put together. The objective was to be in Iraq, on the ground digging, by October 1 at the latest.

  Ralph Barry came into Robert Brown's office, smiling. "I've got good news."

  "Tell me," Brown responded, unimpressed.

  "Picot's in, Robert! The temptation was just too great for a guy like him. I've been talking to a colleague in Berlin. Picot is there recruiting professors and students for his Iraq expedition. He's also been in London and Paris, setting off quite a commotion in the archaeological community. Everybody thinks he's crazy, but some people have an unhealthy curiosity to go to Iraq.

  "I don't think he's going to be able to find any superstars, but he'll convince some students and professors. So far, he's put together the most ragtag bunch you can imagine. They don't have a plan, they haven't done any preliminary surveys of the site, no real analysis of the resources they'll be needing. Apparently Picot's being helped tremendously in all this by Fabian Tudela, a professor of archaeology at the Universidad Complutense in Madrid. He's an expert on Mesopotamia; he got his doctorate at Oxford and has worked on several digs around the Middle East. He's competent, for sure, and he's Picot's best friend. But I doubt they'll be able to do anything. In archaeology, six months is nothing."

  "No, it's not, but they could get lucky. I hope they do."

  "At any rate, they're moving fast. Shall I tell Dukais? He may be able to slip some of his boys in, if he's found anyone."

  "Yeah, fill him in on where Picot is and who he's meeting with. Maybe he's come up with some likely candidates."

  "It won't be easy. ..."

  "Just talk to him."

  When he was alone, Robert Brown dialed a number and waited tensely for an answer. He calmed down when he heard Wagner's voice.

  "I'm sorry to bother you, but I wanted you to know that Yves Picot is organizing a group to go to Iraq."

  "Ah, Picot! I didn't think he'd be able to resist. Have you done everything as I said?"

  "I'm doing it."

  "There can't be any foul-ups."

  "I know. There won't be."

  Brown hesitated a moment or two before he worked up the courage for his next question. "Do you know yet who sent the Italians?"

  George's silence was worse than a reproach. The president of the Mundo Antiguo Foundation began to sweat.

  "See that things go as we've planned."

  And with those words, George Wagner hung up.

  Paul Dukais was taking notes on what Ralph Barry was telling him on the phone.

  "So he's in Berlin," the president of Planet Security stated more than asked.

  "That's right, and he's also been in Paris. He'll be going on to London again before he returns to Madrid. It's September—maybe you can enroll your men in one of these universities so they can volunteer."

  "You just told me that they're looking for fourth-year students— why would they take somebody who's just enrolled in some introductory course? I don't understand this insistence on joining the expedition. We can find another cover for them."

  "Orders from the boss."

  "Robert is impossible."

  "Robert is nervous. These tablets are worth millions. Actually, their value would be incalculable if we can prove their provenance—a revolutionary discovery Genesis according to Abraham."

  "Okay, Ralph. Let's not go overboard. I've got to get to work. I'll call you if I've got something."

  Mercedes was wandering aimlessly through the streets around the Piazza di Spagna. She'd bought a few things in the luxurious boutiques on the Via Condotti, the Via della Croce, the Via Fratina—a couple of handbags, silk scarves, a tailored skirt and jacket, a blouse, a pair of shoes. She was bored. She'd never particularly enjoyed shopping, although she labored over her elegant appearance. Buying classic clothes was an easy way to maintain it.

  She was eager to get back to Spain, to Barcelona, to her business, and to start visiting her construction projects again, climbing up the scaffolding—to the terrified looks of the workmen who thought she was crazy.

  Constant activity allowed her to live, kept her mind focused. She'd spent her whole life running away, avoiding being alone, although she had no one but herself to blame. She'd never married, never had children; she had no brothers or sisters or nieces or nephews, no living relatives at all. Her grandmother, her father's mother, had died years ago. The old lady had been an anarchist, tough as nails, who'd known far too many of Franco's prisons. She had also been the only person who'd helped Mercedes keep her feet on the ground, helped her feel that she was "just people," just another hardworking woman. "Fascists are who they are," she would say, "so we shouldn't be surprised by anything they do." That was the way she calmed her granddaughter's nightmares—by trying to convince her that everything happened just as it did because it flowed from the behavior of men who bore the stigma of evil.

  She'd lived long enough to help Mercedes face life by doing just that—facing it head on.

  Mercedes usually had lunch in her own office, just as she dined alone at home, in front of the TV

  Here she had to find someplace to sit down and rest and eat something. Then she'd walk back to the hotel and pack. She was departing the next day, on the first plane out. Carlo had said he'd stop by the hotel to have dinner with her at a nearby restaurant and say good-bye.

  Carlo called her room from the lobby. When Mercedes came down, they embraced each other warmly, overcome with the torrent of emotions that had been building over the past weeks.

  "Have you talked to Hans and Bruno?" she asked.

  "Yes, they called when they got in. They're fine. Hans is so lucky to have Berta—she's a wonderful woman."

  "Your children are wonderful too."

  "Yes, they are, but I have three, and Hans has only one. He's lucky—Berta pampers him like a baby."

  "Is Bruno all right? He worries me; he seems overwhelmed by the situation, scared even."

  "Pm scared, Mercedes. And I imagine you are too. Our reasons for doing what we're doing don't mean we're above the law."

  "That's the tragedy of being human—nothing we do is without its price. It was God's curse when he expelled us from the Garden."

  "I didn't know you had suddenly become so religious!" Carlo laughed. "When Bruno called, I heard Deborah protesting in the background. He told me that she's very worried, that she even asked him to never see us again. They had a fight, and Bruno said he'd rather leave her, that nothing and no one would ever break his ties to us." "Poor Deborah! I understand what she's going through." "She never liked you." "Almost nobody does."

  "That's because you work at making it that way. You know that, don't you?"

  "Is this my doctor or my friend talking?"

  "Your friend, who also happens to be a doctor."

  "You can heal bodies, but sometimes there's nothing that can be done for the soul."

  "I know, but you should at least make an effort to see other people's points of view."

  "I do. How do you think I've been able to live all these years? But since my grandmother died, all I have are you three—you're the only thing that keeps me alive. You and ..."

  "Revenge. And hatred. They've brought us this far." Carlo changed course. "Your grandmother was an extraordinary woman."

  "She wasn't content to simply be a survivor like me; she had to stand up to everything and everybody. When she got out of prison she refused to change, refused to bend to the Fascists' will; she continued to organize clandestine meetings, cross the French border to sneak anti-Franco propaganda back into Spain, meet with old exiles there. I'll t
ell you a story: In the fifties and sixties, in every movie theater in Spain they would run a newsreel before the film, about what Franco and his ministers were doing. We lived in Mataro, near Barcelona, and there was an outdoor movie theater in the summer where we kids would play, eat sunflower seeds, that sort of thing. The minute Franco's face appeared, my grandmother would hawk up a ball of mucus, spit it out on the ground, and mutter, 'They think they've beaten us, but they're wrong—as long as we can think, we are free.' And she'd point to her head and say, 'They aren't the bosses up here.' I would look at her in horror, because I thought we might be arrested at any moment. But nothing ever happened."

  "I remember she always dressed in black," said Carlo, "with that bun up here on top of her head, and her face covered with wrinkles. She was dignified. Despite the spitting," he added, smiling.

  "She knew exactly what we were talking about, what we'd decided to do—she knew about our oath. And she never reproached me for it. On the contrary, she said whatever we had to do, we should do it with our heads and not be led by hate."

  "I'm not sure we've done that."

  "But we're trying, Carlo, we're trying. I think we're almost at the end now. I think we're very close to Tannenberg."

  "I still wonder why he's revealed himself after so many years. I just can't figure it out, Mercedes."

  "Monsters have feelings too. That woman may be his daughter, his granddaughter, his niece, who knows. FromMarini's report, I think he sent her to Rome to recruit people to help them find those tablets she was talking about at the conference. They must be very important to him—so important that he's risked exposing himself."