The Bible of Clay A Novel

by NAVARRO, JULIA

• ISBN13: 9780440243038
• ISBN10: 0440243033
• Edition: Reprint
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2009-01-27
• Publisher: Bantam

Summary

Internationally bestselling author Julia Navarro riveted readers around the world with her provocative novelTheBrotherhood of the Holy Shroud. Now she goes even further, in this electrifying thriller about a biblical discovery in the Iraqi desertand a deadly struggle on the eve of war to unearth a truth that's waited 3,000 years to be told.... In St. Peter's Basilica, a man sits in a confessional asking forgiveness for a murder he's about to commit. And a young priest begins a desperate journey to stop him. It's the beginning of a ruthless race to find a rumored cache of sacred texts that could be one of the most explosive discoveries of all time. For as Clara Tannenberg and a team of renegade archaeologists journey deep into an Iraq on the brink of war, another far more sinister group is determined to get there first. Sweeping from the time of the biblical patriarchs to the front lines of the Iraqi conflict, from the horrors of Nazi Germany to the back rooms of Washington, D.C.,The Bible of Clayis a novel of unrelenting, thought-provoking, and all-too-plausible suspense.

Author Biography

Julia Navarro is a Madrid-based journalist and political analyst for Agencia OTR/Europa Press, and a correspondent for other prominent Spanish radio and television networks and print media. Her first novel, The Brotherhood of the Holy Shroud, was an international bestseller.


From the Hardcover edition.

Excerpts

Chapter One


RAIN WAS FALLING ALL OVER ROME WHEN THE TAXI STOPPED at St. Peter's Square. It was ten o'clock in the morning.

The passenger paid the fare, told the driver to keep the change, and tucked a newspaper under his arm. He was lean and well tailored in an obviously expensive suit, his white hair combed carefully back, his resolute demeanor that of a person accustomed to giving orders. He headed straight for the first entry point, where visitors were inspected to make sure they entered the basilica properly dressed—no shorts, no miniskirts, no cleavage.

Inside the cathedral, the man rushed past Michelangelo's "Pieta"—the only work of art among the vast Vatican treasures that had ever moved him—without a glance. He paused for a second, orienting himself, then walked toward the confessionals, where priests from an array of countries listened in their native languages to the faithful who came from around the world to visit the Holy See.

He approached a confessional whose sign indicated that the priest heard confessions in Italian, and he stood, leaning against a column, waiting impatiently for the communicant already inside to finish. As soon as he saw the velvet curtain open and a man step out, he moved purposefully toward the confessional.

The priest coughed quietly, ready for the new communicant to begin confession.

"Mi benedica, Padre, perchŽ ho peccato."

"What is it you wish to confess, my son?"

"Not a past sin, Father, but a sin I am about to commit." He leaned toward the priest and smoothed the lapel of his suit jacket. "I intend to kill a man," he said. "May God forgive me."

With that the man stood, rushed from the confessional, and disappeared among the hordes of tourists crowding the basilica. It took the priest a few moments to recover from his shock.

The stunned cleric stepped out of the confessional and picked up a crumpled newspaper lying on the floor. He glanced at the headlines—rostropovich concert in milan; dinosaur movie a blockbuster hit; archaeological conference in rome—and scanned the text below the last, where something had been marked: . . . with world-renowned professors and archaeologists in attendance: Clonay, Miller, Schmidt, Arzaba, Polonoski, Tannenberg. The final name was circled in red: Tannenberg.

Another man had approached the confessional and was asking insistently, "Father, Father—are you all right?"

"Yes, yes . . . no, I'm sorry, I'm not—excuse me . . ."

The priest folded the newspaper and, his gaze abstracted, walked away, leaving his latest supplicant openmouthed and unshriven.
***

"I'd like to speak with Signora Barreda, please."

"May I say who's calling?"

"Dottore Cipriani."

"One moment, Dottore."

The old man ran his hand over his hair and was suddenly seized with claustrophobia; the room was too small. He forced himself to take a deep breath while his eyes ran over the objects that had surrounded him for these last forty years. On his desk sat a picture frame with two photographs: one, now sepia-colored with age, of his parents, and the other of his three children. On the mantel was a photo of his grandchildren. Across the room a couch and a pair of wing chairs were softly illuminated by a floor lamp with a cream-colored shade. The room's walls were lined with mahogany bookshelves containing hundreds of books; Persian rugs covered the floor; the entire room smelled of pipe tobacco. . . . This was his office, he was at home: He had to get control of himself.

"Carlo!"

"Mercedes, we've found him!"

"Oh, Carlo . . . My God! What are you saying?"

The woman's voice was filled with dread—and expectation.

"Get on the

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Excerpted from The Bible of Clay by Julia Navarro
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