Read Online The Bible of Clay by Julia Navarro - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julia Navarro
Ads: Link
we'll need for the excavation, but I wonder whether we'll be able to excavate with a blockade in place. The last thing on Saddam's mind is finding cuneiform tablets. We may not be able to find enough people to work, and the ones we do find, we may have to pay every day."
"Just tell me how much you need; I'll see that you take it with you when you go back."
"Money's just one of our problems. We need more archaeologists, equipment, and materials. And the experts are in Europe, in the United States."
"Listen to me—money is the problem. Alfred shouldn't finance this mission, at least directly—it will draw too much attention. There are thousands of eyes in Iraq. It would be more practical to find financing abroad—some European university, for example. And as for field experts, Yves Picot is interested in talking to you. He's from Alsace, a very, shall we say, interesting man. He taught at Oxford and—"
"I know who Picot is. He's not my favorite archaeologist, a bit heterodox for my taste. And people say he was asked to leave Oxford because he had a relationship with one of his students. He's a man who doesn't always like to follow the rules."
"You can't be telling me that you're worried about the rules. Picot has a group of former students who love him. And he's rich. His father owns a bank in the Channel Islands; actually, it originally belonged to Picot's mother's family, and everybody in the family works there except him. Because he's independently wealthy, he can come across as an unbearable pain in the neck, even somewhat of a despot. But I've got to admit that he's accomplished. He may not be everybody's Prince Charming, but he's the only archaeologist who's taken any interest in
those two tablets that Alfred found—not to mention the only person crazy enough to go off to Iraq right now to an archaeological dig. You decide whether you want to talk to him."
"I'll speak with him, but I don't like him for this project."
"Ahmed, you have no other option. I'm sorry to put it so bluntly."
"You know something?" Ahmed said. "I wonder why Alfred finally chose to make the existence of those tablets public too. And why Brown, if he's so furious about it, has decided to help us."
"Yeah, well, I don't know either, Ahmed, but I've never known either of those two to be wrong."
5
the four friends were having dinner at carlo
Cipriani's house, waiting for the delivery of Security Investigations' latest report. They had received an initial dossier that morning. But the messenger was already an hour late, and Mercedes was growing increasingly uneasy.
"Please, Mercedes, eat something," Carlo pressed. "The food is fantastic—don't let it go to waste."
"I'm not hungry," Mercedes responded flatly. "Well, make an effort," Carlo insisted.
"I'm sick of waiting. Call him, Carlo—something may have happened."
"Always so impatient," Hans Hausser declared, his voice flat.
"Nonsense. I've controlled my impatience for decades, and I've done it very well, thank you. The people who work with me will tell you I never show my emotions," Mercedes answered.
"They don't know you!" Bruno Miiller laughed.
"Besides, Mercedes, the paperwork takes time, for God's sake," said Carlo.
Finally they heard the distant sound of the doorbell and then footsteps coming toward the dining room.
The housekeeper opened the dining-room door and led a man in.
The president of Security Investigations had brought the report himself.
"Carlo, I apologize for the delay. I imagine you were all impatient."
"Yes, as a matter of fact we were," Mercedes answered. "A pleasure to meet you, nevertheless."
Mercedes Barreda held out her hand to Luca Marini, a well-preserved man in his sixties, elegantly dressed, with a tattoo on his wrist covered discreetly by a gold and stainless-steel watch.
The suit is a little tight, Mercedes thought. Trying to conceal his weight problem. But those Michelins around his waist give it away.
"Sit down, Luca. Have you had
"Just tell me how much you need; I'll see that you take it with you when you go back."
"Money's just one of our problems. We need more archaeologists, equipment, and materials. And the experts are in Europe, in the United States."
"Listen to me—money is the problem. Alfred shouldn't finance this mission, at least directly—it will draw too much attention. There are thousands of eyes in Iraq. It would be more practical to find financing abroad—some European university, for example. And as for field experts, Yves Picot is interested in talking to you. He's from Alsace, a very, shall we say, interesting man. He taught at Oxford and—"
"I know who Picot is. He's not my favorite archaeologist, a bit heterodox for my taste. And people say he was asked to leave Oxford because he had a relationship with one of his students. He's a man who doesn't always like to follow the rules."
"You can't be telling me that you're worried about the rules. Picot has a group of former students who love him. And he's rich. His father owns a bank in the Channel Islands; actually, it originally belonged to Picot's mother's family, and everybody in the family works there except him. Because he's independently wealthy, he can come across as an unbearable pain in the neck, even somewhat of a despot. But I've got to admit that he's accomplished. He may not be everybody's Prince Charming, but he's the only archaeologist who's taken any interest in
those two tablets that Alfred found—not to mention the only person crazy enough to go off to Iraq right now to an archaeological dig. You decide whether you want to talk to him."
"I'll speak with him, but I don't like him for this project."
"Ahmed, you have no other option. I'm sorry to put it so bluntly."
"You know something?" Ahmed said. "I wonder why Alfred finally chose to make the existence of those tablets public too. And why Brown, if he's so furious about it, has decided to help us."
"Yeah, well, I don't know either, Ahmed, but I've never known either of those two to be wrong."
5
the four friends were having dinner at carlo
Cipriani's house, waiting for the delivery of Security Investigations' latest report. They had received an initial dossier that morning. But the messenger was already an hour late, and Mercedes was growing increasingly uneasy.
"Please, Mercedes, eat something," Carlo pressed. "The food is fantastic—don't let it go to waste."
"I'm not hungry," Mercedes responded flatly. "Well, make an effort," Carlo insisted.
"I'm sick of waiting. Call him, Carlo—something may have happened."
"Always so impatient," Hans Hausser declared, his voice flat.
"Nonsense. I've controlled my impatience for decades, and I've done it very well, thank you. The people who work with me will tell you I never show my emotions," Mercedes answered.
"They don't know you!" Bruno Miiller laughed.
"Besides, Mercedes, the paperwork takes time, for God's sake," said Carlo.
Finally they heard the distant sound of the doorbell and then footsteps coming toward the dining room.
The housekeeper opened the dining-room door and led a man in.
The president of Security Investigations had brought the report himself.
"Carlo, I apologize for the delay. I imagine you were all impatient."
"Yes, as a matter of fact we were," Mercedes answered. "A pleasure to meet you, nevertheless."
Mercedes Barreda held out her hand to Luca Marini, a well-preserved man in his sixties, elegantly dressed, with a tattoo on his wrist covered discreetly by a gold and stainless-steel watch.
The suit is a little tight, Mercedes thought. Trying to conceal his weight problem. But those Michelins around his waist give it away.
"Sit down, Luca. Have you had
Similar Books
