Lion of Babylon

by Davis Bunn

  The American stood where he would be noticed and focused on nothing. His eyes touched lightly and passed on. But Sameh was fairly certain the man had marked him. Even so, Royce remained in the doorway with the stillness of a professional warrior. Content to wait there all day. Granting Sameh the courtesy of the next move.

  Sameh rose from his table and walked over. “Mr. Royce?”

  “Please. Call me Marc.” His expression was steady and calm and as hard as his handshake.

  “Come and sit. Will you take anything?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  The waiter appeared, and Sameh ordered the American a tea. “It will look better if you have something.”

  “But you’re not having anything.”

  “It is Ramadan.” Sameh took his time studying the man opposite him. Marc Royce accepted the inspection with a patience that was distinctly un-American. “You have been to Iraq before?”

  “Not Iraq, not the Middle East.”

  “Then why you, Mr. Royce? Forgive me for being blunt, but I need to understand why you have been placed here.”

  Marc Royce described his previous day. He explained his fractured connection with the former head of State Department Intelligence. He used a minimum of words and no inflection whatsoever. It was a policeman’s manner of speaking, direct and unadorned. Sameh asked several questions, more to determine whether this stranger was open and honest with his responses. Sameh’s instinct was, the man did not lie. Nor did he intend to hold anything back. “So this Ambassador Walton knew you well enough to realize you would be at church on a Sunday morning.”

  “Ambassador Walton lives on details. He considers the private lives of his staffers to be another source of leverage.”

  Which was a very interesting response, on a multitude of levels. “You use the present tense.”

  “That is correct.”

  “And yet you say that Ambassador Walton has retired.”

  “Officially. But yesterday he told me he has been re-hired in a secret capacity. Walton now advises key White House personnel on intelligence matters.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Yes.”

  “So this gentleman you have not seen in several years suddenly appears and asks you to travel halfway around the world and become his eyes and ears. In Baghdad. I find that curious.” Sameh paused as the waiter returned, set down a tulip glass in front of Marc, and filled it from a thin-necked silver pot. The air was instantly spiced with the fragrance of boiled mint. A refreshing scent, one Sameh never tired of. He used the interruption as a chance to change direction, a habit derived from his time in court. Pose a series of gentle questions which circled around the target, coming from a variety of directions, masking the true aim. “Why do you suppose this ambassador would come to see you at church?”

  “Because I am most disarmed there.” Marc Royce responded with the calm dispassion of a man who had dwelled long and hard on the same point. “He knew there was a risk I would refuse to listen. But at church I am more…”

  “More what, Mr. Royce?”

  “More connected to the past.”

  Something about those words caused a pain to blossom in the man’s dark gaze. A pain both ancient and fresh.

  “Are either of your parents Arab, Mr. Royce? I ask only because your coloring suggests a connection to this region.”

  “Sorry, no. My mother came from Louisiana. Her family was Cajun, a name derived from Acadian. A region in eastern Canada.”

  Sameh saw no need to tell the young man he knew about the region because he had fallen in love with Longfellow’s poetry, most especially the epic poem about the Acadian expulsion. Instead he asked, “So this gentleman meets you where you are most vulnerable, and asks you to forget past grievances. To help find a mutual friend.”

  “Alex Baird. That is correct.”

  “But why you? This is a critical issue, would you not agree? Don’t you think a man with White House connections could find someone with better-what do you call it-bona fides? Someone with Middle East experience? Someone who knows Baghdad and the situation here?”

  “Three reasons.”

  “I’m listening, Mr. Royce.”

  “First, there are people inside the government who do not want Alex Baird found. Why, I have no idea. But this has left Walton’s hands tied. He would have gone through official channels if he could have. But he can’t.”

  This mirrored the situation Sameh faced in Baghdad and had been confirmed by Barry Duboe. Sameh merely replied, “That is one reason.”

  “My guess is, Ambassador Walton suspects Alex has gone missing because of some issue tied to the church. How, I don’t know. But one of the missing women is a missionary. And they all worshiped at the same Green Zone chapel. That is a coincidence. Ambassador Walton has another name for coincidences. He calls them fault lines. Points where the mystery may be resolved.”

  “Your ambassador sounds like a very intelligent man. And point three?”

  “Walton is using me as bait.”

  Sameh leaned back in his seat. It was what he had himself been thinking. But to have Marc Royce suggest it in such a calm and analytical fashion was most remarkable.

  The young man went on, “Barry Duboe is also a friend of Alex. And a longtime ally of Ambassador Walton. But he has hit the same stone wall. So they plant me in plain sight. You know the expression, ‘tethered goat’?”

  “Of course.”

  Marc Royce explained it anyway. “You trap a dangerous predator by tying live bait out where the beast can get a good look. And you hide your best shooters nearby. And you wait.”

  “It does not bother you to have this gentleman in Washington use you in such a fashion?”

  “I’d like to think Walton expects me to survive.”

  “Even so. You owe Alex Baird so much?”

  Once more, Marc Royce’s eyes met his host’s to reveal hidden pains. “My life and more.”

  Sameh found himself far from displeased to have been handed this American. He was in fact very intrigued. Even so, he needed to be certain that this intense young man was actually worth the bother. “You ask a great deal of me, Mr. Royce. Your presence represents a very large and potentially dangerous request. And we both know it.”

  Marc lifted his tea, blew across the surface, and tasted it. “This tea is great.”

  “Before we discuss the issue that has brought us together, I need to know if you are indeed a man I can rely on.” Sameh pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and set it on the table between them. “I have a situation. One that troubles me as much as the missing Americans disturb you. Perhaps more.”

  Marc set down the glass. “Tell me what you need.”

  “Inside the envelope is the photograph and name and fingerprints of a kidnapper. We believe he has taken the young child of my client. The child’s photograph and other details are also enclosed. I need help finding that man. He was employed by my client as a gardener. During Saddam’s regime he had been arrested for abduction and murder.”

  Marc Royce underwent a remarkable transformation. One that actually silenced the tables to either side of them. The courteous facade simply vanished. In its place was a man of such cold fury that even Sameh was a little frightened. “He kidnapped a baby?”

  “The boy turned four soon after he was abducted. Barry Duboe has refused to help me unless or until we find your-”

  “I’ll talk to him.” He was already on his feet. “How do I reach you?”

  – – During the drive from the hotel back to his office, Sameh repeatedly recalled the young man’s expression. It captured a fighter’s strength, an implacable force. Focused upon saving the life of a child he had never met. An Arab child.

  Sameh wondered if perhaps the young man’s arrival was something more than it seemed. There was an expression many Iraqis used at the beginning of each day, actually a Christian prayer that predated Islam. But it was spoken by many Muslims as well. Ya sabbah, ya aleem .
Salutations to the Giver of this new day, to the Giver of this life. It was intended to draw divine protection into a chaotic world. Sameh silently repeated the blessing, then asked the dusty day through the windshield, was Marc Royce’s arrival a sign? And if so, a sign of what?

  Chapter Ten

  M arc checked into a room at the Al-Hamra. The hotel was a decent enough place, with fresh sheets, clean facilities, and even a small balcony. Marc paid extra for a room on the seventh floor, one just below the penthouse. He had no idea why it was good to be up high, other than how the generator’s noise was muted. But the desk clerk said the upper-floor rooms cost fifty dollars more a night. Marc assumed if anybody was willing to pay that much for a couple dozen feet of extra elevation, there had to be a good reason.

  Marc pulled the room’s lone chair over to the balcony window. Beyond the sliding glass doors, the city weaved and danced in the heat. He opened the new cellphone and dialed the number Barry Duboe had given him.

  Duboe answered on the first ring. “This better be good.”

  “I need something.”

  “You already got all the somethings I’m ready to deliver.”

  “This is important.”

  “Always is.”

  Marc spelled the gardener’s name. Sketched out the details on Sameh’s single sheet of paper. Passport number. Date of last arrest. Charges of abduction, extortion, murder. Released in the dying days of Saddam’s regime.

  Duboe said, “I’m hanging up now.”

  “And I’m calling Walton. Then I’ll make the request a second time, and wait for you to call me back. How does that work for you?” When the CIA agent responded by breathing hard into his ear, Marc went on, “I’ve got a photograph and fingerprints. Give me your fax number.”

  Anger grated Duboe’s voice as he recited the numbers. Then he cut the connection.

  Marc went downstairs and waited while the fax was sent. He asked the receptionist for directions and left the hotel. To him, the entire world was a superheated yellow. Everything was coated in the same drenching layers of heat and dust. Cars, buildings, people, air. Even the light.

  He walked along a raised sidewalk past a third-world array of tiny shops. Cellphones, computers, children’s games, kitchen utensils-on and on the shops went. Conversations stopped as Marc passed. Dark eyes studied him for any hint of threat or weakness, then dismissed him.

  The traffic was slow and sullen. Marc’s every breath felt clogged with grime and diesel and roasting lamb and coriander and mint. He found it an earthy, thrilling mix. Marc felt his blood surge in a way he had thought lost and gone forever. His senses were on danger alert. The high was so strong and unexpected he felt guilty.

  He entered the establishment which the receptionist had suggested. A pair of men, clearly father and son, welcomed him in a loud mixture of English and Arabic. The receptionist no doubt had called ahead, working hard for his kickback. Marc purchased three sets of clothes to match those he had seen other nonmilitary Westerners wear-pale cotton slacks, loose shirts, everything made from substances that could be washed in the sink, hung out to dry, and worn again without ironing. He also purchased a pair of lightweight canvas lace-ups, a cross between sneakers and boots.

  He took his purchases back to the hotel, where he showered and lay down on the bed. Marc did not expect to sleep, but the next thing he knew there was an unfamiliar buzzing sound next to his ear. He fumbled across the nightstand for his new cellphone, rubbed his eyes, and said, “This is Marc.”

  “I got what you want.”

  “Hold on.” He rose from his bed and walked to the desk. The electronic clock read four fifteen. The city outside his window was completely dark. Duboe was calling him the hour before dawn. Marc found the hotel pen and pad by moonlight, rubbed his face again, and said, “Go ahead.”

  Duboe gave him a name, then spelled it out, each letter brittle with his wrath. When he stopped, Marc asked, “Do I need an address?”

  “Not for that place.”

  “Should this name mean something to me?”

  “Ask your new best pal. He knows.” Duboe’s words felt like bullets. “You tell Sameh I’ve delivered. This is a one-time gift. Either you come in with the goods, or the game is over. Repeat, over.”

  – – Sameh’s office was just off Nidhal Street. Many of the city’s ancient structures had started life as palaces, including this one. But the building had been poorly maintained and battered by war. Recently it had been expanded in an ugly and haphazard manner, so that it covered every square inch of what once had been formal gardens. But here and there were still vestiges of the lost grandeur. Sameh’s private office occupied what probably had been a beloved child’s bedroom. The room was narrow and long, with a high peaked ceiling. The walls and ceiling still held shadows of original murals, vague shapes that suggested a fabled garden and birds in flight. This was extremely rare, as Islam forbade the making of images. Yet here they were, ghostly recollections of a faded past.

  The building had air-conditioning. But most days they could not risk turning it on. Baghdad endured constant power shortages. The danger was not in losing power entirely, but in the power declining. If the air-conditioner was running during such a decline, the condenser would burn out. There were no replacement condensers in Baghdad, and few repairmen. All parts had to be brought in from Jordan. So the air-conditioner did not run.

  The various offices all owned shares of a generator. The generator ran the lights and the fans, but when the city’s power went out, everything dimmed and the fans emitted a sullen growl.

  Sameh had spent the previous afternoon trying to find where the gardener might have lived. Supposedly there were records of all the felons released in Saddam’s last days. The police were constantly revamping the list of those whom they knew to still be in Baghdad. Many had fled, either to outlying cities or away from Iraq entirely. Several hundred were known to have remained in the capital, however, and these were carefully monitored. What made this gardener interesting was how no one seemed to know anything about him.

  Sameh entered his office to find Marc waiting for him. Which was a surprise. What was more of an astonishment was how his aides smiled at this young American.

  One of Sameh’s two assistants was his niece, Leyla. She had been married to a judge. Sameh had introduced the two of them. Since both her parents were deceased, Sameh had also served as Leyla’s official guardian during the courtship. Leyla’s husband had been one of very few judges during Saddam’s regime who had not been a member of the Baath Party. The last year of Saddam’s rule, the judge had been handed a case in which a Baath official had taken over the villa of a family after they disappeared. Despite warnings, the family’s relatives had taken the case to court. Leyla’s husband had sided with the family’s relatives and ordered the party official to vacate the house. A week later, all the relatives of the family had vanished. As had Leyla’s husband. After Hussein was captured, the judge’s remains were exhumed and returned to the family for proper burial.

  Leyla and her young daughter lived with Sameh and his wife. Initially, Sameh had given his niece a job simply to help her recover from her grief. Now Leyla served as Sameh’s right hand.

  Sameh’s other assistant was a woman named Aisha, the only woman of her family to obtain a university education. Aisha was in an unhappy marriage. Her only real joy came from her work. She cherished Sameh and Leyla. Sameh had originally hired Aisha because of her Sunni heritage. Sameh was publicly known as a Christian who also had strong ties to the Shia community. Sameh’s choice of assistants was intended to say that he represented everyone equally and fairly. Both women wore what had become the standard dress for educated professional women in the nation’s capital-dark Western-style dresses of ankle length, with scarves draped about their necks. When they were in public, the scarves were drawn up to cover their hair.

  Leyla was in the process of serving Marc coffee. Which was not unusual. What struck Sameh was the manner in which Ley
la observed their guest. Sameh’s niece was strikingly beautiful, but she usually wrapped herself in a mantle of sorrow. Though only twenty-nine, Leyla made a profession of dismissing every possible suitor out of hand. Sameh and his wife feared she would grow old and shrivel away long before her time. Yet today she refilled Marc’s cup with an expression that halted Sameh in his doorway.

  Leyla said to her uncle. “Marc is an accountant.”

  The previous evening, Sameh had told his wife and Leyla about his meeting with Marc. He normally told them everything that was not privileged client information, though even this rule was stretched when it came to cases involving the absent children. Their commonsense advice and their female perspective had been instrumental in retrieving several of the little ones. Sameh had described Marc as a former intelligence officer. Nothing more. Which was hardly a surprise, since he knew little more himself.

  Leyla went on, “He studied at the University of Maryland. In Baltimore.”

  Marc corrected, “I studied mostly online. I was… busy.”

  Sameh shut the outer door. “You are a CPA?”

  “Forensic accountant.”

  Aisha’s eyes gleamed with an unusual curiosity. “What is that, please?”

  “A forensic accountant searches for the hidden. Normally they’re brought in when there is suspicion of wrongdoing. Or a bankruptcy. Any time the figures don’t add up.”

  Leyla said, “It sounds most interesting.”

  Marc glanced at Sameh, then back at the two women. “Most days my work ranks right up there with watching paint dry.”

  Sameh set his briefcase on the coffee table. “He means it is very boring.”

  “Then why do you do it?” Leyla wondered.

  “I sort of fell into it.”

  Aisha’s English was almost as good as Leyla’s. But when she was keyed up, her accent became pronounced. Like now. “Forgive me. But how is this possible, that you fall into being an accountant?”