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Authors: Julia Navarro
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He'd drawn up a detailed plan for the next few months. The war was about to start, and he wanted to have everything in place.
On his way out of the Palazzo dei Congressi in Rome, Ralph Barry passed a thin, dark-haired man arguing with one of the security guards to let him in. As he waited for the taxi he had called, Barry was struck by the young man's insistence. He wasn't an archaeologist, a journalist, or a historian—he flatly refused to reveal his identity—but he was determined to enter. Just then, Barry's taxi pulled up, and his mind turned to his upcoming meeting.
The sun was gilding the obelisk in the Piazza del Popolo. Barry and Ahmed Husseini had a date for lunch at La Bolognesa. As always, the restaurant was full of tourists, the two of them included.
"Tell me exactly where the remains of the structure are located," Ralph said to Ahmed. "Brown insists that you give me the coordinates. I also want to know what resources you have at your disposal and what you need. We can't publicly intervene; you have no idea the uproar it would cause if an American foundation were to invest a penny right now in an excavation in Iraq. But, of course, we may be able to help in a more . . . discreet fashion. Another thing—your wife, Clara. Can you control her? She's . . . excuse me for saying so, but she's just too out there."
Ahmed was visibly uncomfortable with the reference to his wife. In that respect, he was very much an Iraqi. One did not speak about women, much less about a man's wife.
"Clara is proud of her grandfather."
"That's admirable, but she does a disservice to her grandfather by shining a spotlight on him. Alfred Tannenberg based his success on discretion; you know how careful he's always been about his business. That's why we don't understand your wife's very public announcement, at this premature point, of the Bible of Clay. In a few months, once the United States has had its way with Iraq, we could have organized a fullblown excavation. But now . . . Perhaps you might ask Alfred to speak with Clara, to explain certain things to her."
"It was Alfred's decision to reveal the existence of the Bible of Clay."
Ralph Barry sat back, puzzled.
"I know that this is the first time he's broken with George Wagner and Robert Brown," Ahmed went on. "But you know Alfred—it's hard to change his mind once he has it set on something. Besides, he's very sick. I'm not going to bore you with the list of his medical problems; he's eighty-five years old and the doctors have found a tumor on his liver. We don't know how long he has to live. Fortunately, his mind works perfectly. He's still got a terrible temper and refuses to turn over the reins of the business. As for Clara, she's his granddaughter: She can do no wrong in his eyes. He wants this for her."
Ahmed paused and gazed levelly at Barry. "And, Ralph—forget about the notion that the American presence in Iraq is going to be a walk in the park. It's going to be terrible."
"Don't be pessimistic," Barry replied. "You'll see how things will change. Saddam is a problem for everyone. And nothing will happen to you and your family Robert Brown will make sure that you can return to the United States safely Please, talk to Alfred."
"It won't do any good. Why doesn't Wagner, or Brown, talk to him? Alfred is much more likely to listen to his old partners."
"You know that telephone calls into Iraq are being monitored. Robert can't call him there—it could be recorded. As for George Wagner . . . He's God, and I am not a member of his heavenly parliament. I'm just a foundation employee. I am expecting a letter Robert wants you to take to Alfred. Someone will bring it from Washington; he'll give it to me, and I'll give it to you. Just as it's always been— communication by personal couriers. We'll pick up Alfred's answer in Amman this time, instead of Cairo."
Ahmed nodded thoughtfully. "Don't worry about Clara; she won't be a problem in Iraq. I'll let you know what resources
On his way out of the Palazzo dei Congressi in Rome, Ralph Barry passed a thin, dark-haired man arguing with one of the security guards to let him in. As he waited for the taxi he had called, Barry was struck by the young man's insistence. He wasn't an archaeologist, a journalist, or a historian—he flatly refused to reveal his identity—but he was determined to enter. Just then, Barry's taxi pulled up, and his mind turned to his upcoming meeting.
The sun was gilding the obelisk in the Piazza del Popolo. Barry and Ahmed Husseini had a date for lunch at La Bolognesa. As always, the restaurant was full of tourists, the two of them included.
"Tell me exactly where the remains of the structure are located," Ralph said to Ahmed. "Brown insists that you give me the coordinates. I also want to know what resources you have at your disposal and what you need. We can't publicly intervene; you have no idea the uproar it would cause if an American foundation were to invest a penny right now in an excavation in Iraq. But, of course, we may be able to help in a more . . . discreet fashion. Another thing—your wife, Clara. Can you control her? She's . . . excuse me for saying so, but she's just too out there."
Ahmed was visibly uncomfortable with the reference to his wife. In that respect, he was very much an Iraqi. One did not speak about women, much less about a man's wife.
"Clara is proud of her grandfather."
"That's admirable, but she does a disservice to her grandfather by shining a spotlight on him. Alfred Tannenberg based his success on discretion; you know how careful he's always been about his business. That's why we don't understand your wife's very public announcement, at this premature point, of the Bible of Clay. In a few months, once the United States has had its way with Iraq, we could have organized a fullblown excavation. But now . . . Perhaps you might ask Alfred to speak with Clara, to explain certain things to her."
"It was Alfred's decision to reveal the existence of the Bible of Clay."
Ralph Barry sat back, puzzled.
"I know that this is the first time he's broken with George Wagner and Robert Brown," Ahmed went on. "But you know Alfred—it's hard to change his mind once he has it set on something. Besides, he's very sick. I'm not going to bore you with the list of his medical problems; he's eighty-five years old and the doctors have found a tumor on his liver. We don't know how long he has to live. Fortunately, his mind works perfectly. He's still got a terrible temper and refuses to turn over the reins of the business. As for Clara, she's his granddaughter: She can do no wrong in his eyes. He wants this for her."
Ahmed paused and gazed levelly at Barry. "And, Ralph—forget about the notion that the American presence in Iraq is going to be a walk in the park. It's going to be terrible."
"Don't be pessimistic," Barry replied. "You'll see how things will change. Saddam is a problem for everyone. And nothing will happen to you and your family Robert Brown will make sure that you can return to the United States safely Please, talk to Alfred."
"It won't do any good. Why doesn't Wagner, or Brown, talk to him? Alfred is much more likely to listen to his old partners."
"You know that telephone calls into Iraq are being monitored. Robert can't call him there—it could be recorded. As for George Wagner . . . He's God, and I am not a member of his heavenly parliament. I'm just a foundation employee. I am expecting a letter Robert wants you to take to Alfred. Someone will bring it from Washington; he'll give it to me, and I'll give it to you. Just as it's always been— communication by personal couriers. We'll pick up Alfred's answer in Amman this time, instead of Cairo."
Ahmed nodded thoughtfully. "Don't worry about Clara; she won't be a problem in Iraq. I'll let you know what resources
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