whole episode in the first place.
Clara was a spoiled child, and pigheaded to boot. She always had been. How was it possible that Alfred had such a granddaughter? His son, Helmut, had been different. The boy had never given Alfred a bad night. A shame he'd died so young. He was an intelligent young man who always carried himself with discretion—Alfred had taught him to be invisible and the boy had learned well. But Clara . . . Clara behaved like a headstrong little princess. Alfred allowed her to do things he'd never allowed Helmut even to think of; he was putty in her hands.
Helmut had married Amira, an Iraqi woman with a cascade of black hair and the profile of a goddess carved in ivory. Alfred had approved heartily of the advantageous marriage. With it, his son had become a member of an old Iraqi family that was not just influential but also wealthy—very wealthy, indeed. They had ties with powerful friends in Baghdad, Cairo, Amman, and the other capitals of the region, which meant that they were respected and their opinions valued across the Middle East. In addition, Ibrahim, Amira's father, was a cultured, educated man of great refinement.
Amira was distinguished by nothing but her beauty, yet Helmut had seemed utterly enchanted by her. Of course, the woman might have been more intelligent than she seemed. With Muslim women, one never knew for sure.
Alfred had lost his son and daughter-in-law in a car accident when Clara was a teenager, and he had spoiled his granddaughter royally ever since. Robert had never liked Clara. It set his teeth on edge when she called him Uncle Robert; he was irritated by her self-assurance, which bordered on insolence, and bored by her incessant chatter regarding her grandfather's archaeological ambitions.
When Alfred sent her to the United States to study and asked Robert to watch over her, he could never have imagined how tiresome that undertaking would be. But he couldn't say no to Alfred, who was, after all, a business partner and special friend of George Wagner. So he arranged her enrollment at the University of California at Berkeley. Fortunately, she'd fallen in love with and married Ahmed Husseini, an intelligent man with whom one could actually deal. Alfred and Robert had hit it off perfectly with Ahmed, who had turned out to be a tremendous asset in Alfred's business. The problem was Clara.
The conversation he'd had with Ralph Barry had given him a splitting headache just when he was about to have lunch with a close adviser to the President of the United States and some friends, all men of business interested in the forthcoming invasion of Iraq. But the conversation with George had been even worse. Wagner had ordered him in no uncertain terms to take charge of the situation, now that the Bible of Clay had been publicly announced and Alfred and his granddaughter were making their move to find it for themselves. Normally, they all would have shared in its profits, but it was now clear that Alfred had abandoned their long-standing partnership. Wagner's edict had been unambiguous: Get the Bible of Clay—if it actually existed, of course.
Robert pressed his intercom for his secretary. "Smith, get Ralph Barry for me again, please."
"Yes, Mr. Brown. And, sir, Senator Miller's assistant just called to confirm that you'll be attending the picnic the senator's wife is having this weekend."
Another stupid woman, Brown thought. Every year she organized the same farce: a picnic at their farm in Vermont, where guests were forced to drink lemonade and eat sandwiches as they sat on cashmere blankets spread on the ground. But Brown knew he'd have to go, because Senator Miller was a Texan with interests in the oil sector. The secretaries of defense and state, the attorney general, the national security adviser, the director of the CIA, and who knew who else would be at the damned picnic. And so would George Wagner. It was an ideal occasion for some high-stakes dealmaking in full view of
Clara was a spoiled child, and pigheaded to boot. She always had been. How was it possible that Alfred had such a granddaughter? His son, Helmut, had been different. The boy had never given Alfred a bad night. A shame he'd died so young. He was an intelligent young man who always carried himself with discretion—Alfred had taught him to be invisible and the boy had learned well. But Clara . . . Clara behaved like a headstrong little princess. Alfred allowed her to do things he'd never allowed Helmut even to think of; he was putty in her hands.
Helmut had married Amira, an Iraqi woman with a cascade of black hair and the profile of a goddess carved in ivory. Alfred had approved heartily of the advantageous marriage. With it, his son had become a member of an old Iraqi family that was not just influential but also wealthy—very wealthy, indeed. They had ties with powerful friends in Baghdad, Cairo, Amman, and the other capitals of the region, which meant that they were respected and their opinions valued across the Middle East. In addition, Ibrahim, Amira's father, was a cultured, educated man of great refinement.
Amira was distinguished by nothing but her beauty, yet Helmut had seemed utterly enchanted by her. Of course, the woman might have been more intelligent than she seemed. With Muslim women, one never knew for sure.
Alfred had lost his son and daughter-in-law in a car accident when Clara was a teenager, and he had spoiled his granddaughter royally ever since. Robert had never liked Clara. It set his teeth on edge when she called him Uncle Robert; he was irritated by her self-assurance, which bordered on insolence, and bored by her incessant chatter regarding her grandfather's archaeological ambitions.
When Alfred sent her to the United States to study and asked Robert to watch over her, he could never have imagined how tiresome that undertaking would be. But he couldn't say no to Alfred, who was, after all, a business partner and special friend of George Wagner. So he arranged her enrollment at the University of California at Berkeley. Fortunately, she'd fallen in love with and married Ahmed Husseini, an intelligent man with whom one could actually deal. Alfred and Robert had hit it off perfectly with Ahmed, who had turned out to be a tremendous asset in Alfred's business. The problem was Clara.
The conversation he'd had with Ralph Barry had given him a splitting headache just when he was about to have lunch with a close adviser to the President of the United States and some friends, all men of business interested in the forthcoming invasion of Iraq. But the conversation with George had been even worse. Wagner had ordered him in no uncertain terms to take charge of the situation, now that the Bible of Clay had been publicly announced and Alfred and his granddaughter were making their move to find it for themselves. Normally, they all would have shared in its profits, but it was now clear that Alfred had abandoned their long-standing partnership. Wagner's edict had been unambiguous: Get the Bible of Clay—if it actually existed, of course.
Robert pressed his intercom for his secretary. "Smith, get Ralph Barry for me again, please."
"Yes, Mr. Brown. And, sir, Senator Miller's assistant just called to confirm that you'll be attending the picnic the senator's wife is having this weekend."
Another stupid woman, Brown thought. Every year she organized the same farce: a picnic at their farm in Vermont, where guests were forced to drink lemonade and eat sandwiches as they sat on cashmere blankets spread on the ground. But Brown knew he'd have to go, because Senator Miller was a Texan with interests in the oil sector. The secretaries of defense and state, the attorney general, the national security adviser, the director of the CIA, and who knew who else would be at the damned picnic. And so would George Wagner. It was an ideal occasion for some high-stakes dealmaking in full view of
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