The Bible of Clay Read Free Page A

ago to tell me that there is, indeed, a Tannenberg at the archaeological conference being held here in Rome at the Palazzo Brancaccio. But it's not our man—in fact, it's a woman named Clara Tannenberg, an Iraqi. She's thirty-five years old, an archaeologist who studied in Cairo and the United States. Despite her youth, she's directing one of the few excavations still going on in Iraq, no doubt thanks also to the influence of her husband, Ahmed, an Iraqi archaeologist himself connected to the Hussein regime. He studied in France and received his doctorate in the United States, where he lived for several years. They met there and were married. This is her first trip to Europe."
    "Does she have anything to do with him?" Mercedes asked.
    "With Tannenberg?" Carlo answered. "Like you said, it's quite a common name. But it's possible. The investigators found links to the Middle East in the past. A Tannenberg of Iraqi heritage making her way into archaeology: That's more than just a coincidence. She may be his daughter, for all we know. And if she is, I imagine we can get to him through her. I don't think he's dead."
    "No, he's not dead," declared Mercedes. "I know he's not dead. I would feel it in my bones. So Clara may be his daughter?"
    "Or granddaughter," added Hans. "He must be close to ninety."
    "Carlo," Bruno asked, "what are we going to do?"
    "Follow her no matter where it takes us. Security Investigations can send men to Iraq, although it will cost us a small fortune. But let's be clear about one thing—if that madman George Bush invades Iraq, we'll have to find another company."
    "Why?" Mercedes' voice was impatient.
    "Because pulling off a job in a country at war requires men a bit. . . less scrupulous than those employed by Security Investigations."
    "You're right," Hans agreed, crossing his legs uncomfortably in
    Carlo's leather office chair. "What happens if we find him, if this Clara Tannenberg actually has some connection to him? We need a professional—someone who doesn't mind killing. If he's still alive . . ."
    "And if not, then we'll find his children, his grandchildren, anyone related to him, just as we swore." Mercedes' voice was filled with barely contained rage. She was unwilling to admit the slightest impulse of mercy or compassion.
    "I agree." Hans nodded. "What about you, Bruno?"
    The most admired concert pianist of the late twentieth century did not hesitate to answer with another decisive yes.
    "All right, then. What other company could do the job?" Mercedes asked Carlo.
    "Luca has assured me that there are a couple of British companies that hire former members of the SAS and other special-forces groups from armies all over the world. There's also an American company, a security-specialty multinational—although security is a euphemism. They hire private soldiers who'll fight for any well-paid cause, no matter what country. He's going to give me two or three names, and we'll decide about that tomorrow."
    "Good," Mercedes shot back. "Because if we don't find anyone, I could kill them personally."
    They all believed her. They had felt the same hatred, a hatred that had grown hotter and hotter the longer they had lived in the monster's hell.
    2
    "... i have the pleasure of introducing clara
    Tannenberg."
    Ralph Barry, the moderator of the Mesopotamian culture panel, left the lectern to a dull round of applause as the small, determined-looking woman, clutching a sheaf of papers to her chest, approached to begin her speech.
    Clara Tannenberg was nervous. She knew how much was at stake. Her eyes sought her husband in the audience; he gave her a smile of encouragement. For a moment she lost her concentration in his dark eyes. Ahmed was tall, thin, handsome. Though he was older than her by fifteen years, their passion for archaeology connected them deeply. Gripping the lectern to steady herself, she began.
    "Ladies and gentlemen, today is a very special day for me. I have come to Rome to ask for your help, to