the oblivious crowd.
A buzzer signaled that Barry was on the line.
"Is there anything that ties Clara Tannenberg to us?" Robert asked him without preamble.
"No, no, of course not. I told you not to worry. The onus of her behavior lay squarely on her and Ahmed. Mundo Antiguo has no connection to that speech whatsoever."
"All right, I suppose that puts us more or less in the clear. You still should have kept her out."
"I told you, Robert—I couldn't. Once Alfred allowed her to attend, nobody could have kept her from signing up for the panel on Mesopotamia, much less from talking. Believe me, I tried to convince her—there was no way. She insisted that she had her grandfather's consent, and she said that ought to be enough for you."
"Alfred must be gaga."
"He might be, who knows? At any rate, his granddaughter, at least, is absolutely obsessed with this Bible of Clay. . . . Do you think it actually exists?"
"It seems likely, from what we know. But we had no intention of making that information public—at least not yet. But that doesn't matter now. We'll make sure we're there, if and when it's found, and we'll secure it for ourselves. We'll just have to cut Alfred out of this one."
"But how?"
"In view of what's happened, we have to change our plans. We were going to assemble our own team, quietly. But she's left us no choice.
One way or another, they're going to put a group of archaeologists together and push ahead with their excavation, so we'll find a way to make sure they have financing. We'll figure something out. And then we'll place our own man in the excavation."
"Jesus, Robert, the situation in Iraq is not exactly propitious for an archaeological excavation. All the Western governments have put out travelers' warnings. It could be suicide to go there now. We ought to wait."
"Am I hearing you right, Ralph? This is the best time to go to Iraq, man. We'll be there, and we'll do it our way. Iraq is the new land of opportunity—only a fool wouldn't see that."
Barry didn't argue further. After a pause, he went back to the events at the conference. "A professor named Yves Picot, who's very well regarded in the field, is the only one who seemed to show any real interest in what Clara was saying. He told me he'd like to talk to Ahmed. If he goes, maybe we can slip a man into his team."
"Let him talk to Ahmed first. Trust Ahmed. He knows what he's supposed to do. But first ask him to send his wife to Baghdad, or to hell—anywhere, but get her out of there before she ruins us all."
Ralph laughed to himself. Robert Brown's misogyny was notorious. He hated women—and was clearly uncomfortable in their presence. He was a confirmed bachelor who'd never been known to have emotional relationships of any kind. It was even hard for him to be cordial to his friends' wives. Unlike practically every other businessman in the world, his secretary was a man—Smith, a polyglot, stick-up-his-ass sixty-year-old who'd spent his entire adult life at Robert's side.
"Okay, Robert, I'll see what I can do to get Clara back to Baghdad. I'll get Ahmed to help me. But she is not an easy woman—she's arrogant, and she's stubborn."
Like her grandfather, thought Brown. But without his intelligence.
The president's adviser enjoyed Mediterranean cuisine, so they chose to lunch at a Spanish restaurant near the Capitol.
Robert Brown was the first to arrive. He was punctual to a fault. It infuriated him to wait; he hated people who were late for appointments. He hoped the president's adviser wouldn't be delayed by some last-minute emergency.
One by one the others came in: Dick Garby, John Nelly, and Edward Fox. They all were owners or directors of construction firms, oil interests, equipment companies. The man from the White House was the last to arrive, and he was in a foul mood.
He told them that negotiations with the Europeans over the Security Council's support of military action against Iraq were getting complicated.
"There are
A buzzer signaled that Barry was on the line.
"Is there anything that ties Clara Tannenberg to us?" Robert asked him without preamble.
"No, no, of course not. I told you not to worry. The onus of her behavior lay squarely on her and Ahmed. Mundo Antiguo has no connection to that speech whatsoever."
"All right, I suppose that puts us more or less in the clear. You still should have kept her out."
"I told you, Robert—I couldn't. Once Alfred allowed her to attend, nobody could have kept her from signing up for the panel on Mesopotamia, much less from talking. Believe me, I tried to convince her—there was no way. She insisted that she had her grandfather's consent, and she said that ought to be enough for you."
"Alfred must be gaga."
"He might be, who knows? At any rate, his granddaughter, at least, is absolutely obsessed with this Bible of Clay. . . . Do you think it actually exists?"
"It seems likely, from what we know. But we had no intention of making that information public—at least not yet. But that doesn't matter now. We'll make sure we're there, if and when it's found, and we'll secure it for ourselves. We'll just have to cut Alfred out of this one."
"But how?"
"In view of what's happened, we have to change our plans. We were going to assemble our own team, quietly. But she's left us no choice.
One way or another, they're going to put a group of archaeologists together and push ahead with their excavation, so we'll find a way to make sure they have financing. We'll figure something out. And then we'll place our own man in the excavation."
"Jesus, Robert, the situation in Iraq is not exactly propitious for an archaeological excavation. All the Western governments have put out travelers' warnings. It could be suicide to go there now. We ought to wait."
"Am I hearing you right, Ralph? This is the best time to go to Iraq, man. We'll be there, and we'll do it our way. Iraq is the new land of opportunity—only a fool wouldn't see that."
Barry didn't argue further. After a pause, he went back to the events at the conference. "A professor named Yves Picot, who's very well regarded in the field, is the only one who seemed to show any real interest in what Clara was saying. He told me he'd like to talk to Ahmed. If he goes, maybe we can slip a man into his team."
"Let him talk to Ahmed first. Trust Ahmed. He knows what he's supposed to do. But first ask him to send his wife to Baghdad, or to hell—anywhere, but get her out of there before she ruins us all."
Ralph laughed to himself. Robert Brown's misogyny was notorious. He hated women—and was clearly uncomfortable in their presence. He was a confirmed bachelor who'd never been known to have emotional relationships of any kind. It was even hard for him to be cordial to his friends' wives. Unlike practically every other businessman in the world, his secretary was a man—Smith, a polyglot, stick-up-his-ass sixty-year-old who'd spent his entire adult life at Robert's side.
"Okay, Robert, I'll see what I can do to get Clara back to Baghdad. I'll get Ahmed to help me. But she is not an easy woman—she's arrogant, and she's stubborn."
Like her grandfather, thought Brown. But without his intelligence.
The president's adviser enjoyed Mediterranean cuisine, so they chose to lunch at a Spanish restaurant near the Capitol.
Robert Brown was the first to arrive. He was punctual to a fault. It infuriated him to wait; he hated people who were late for appointments. He hoped the president's adviser wouldn't be delayed by some last-minute emergency.
One by one the others came in: Dick Garby, John Nelly, and Edward Fox. They all were owners or directors of construction firms, oil interests, equipment companies. The man from the White House was the last to arrive, and he was in a foul mood.
He told them that negotiations with the Europeans over the Security Council's support of military action against Iraq were getting complicated.
"There are
Similar Books
