by Davis Bunn
“A specialist accountant,” Leyla added.
Aisha said, “It must be very much work.”
Marc glanced once more at Sameh. Clearly the young American did not want to answer. He finally said, “My wife became ill. I stopped working for the government to take care of her. I needed something to fill the days, so I began studying online. Numbers had always been easy for me. It seemed like a good fit. At the time.”
The women exchanged glances. Leyla asked, “Your wife, she is well now?”
“No. She passed on three years ago.”
“I am very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
Sameh noticed the man’s hand tremble slightly as he replaced the cup in the saucer. When Marc rose to his feet, the women rose with him, as they would for a most distinguished visitor. Marc asked Sameh, “Could you drive me somewhere, please?”
Aisha sounded apologetic. “I must remind you that you are due for meetings at the bank. And the Imam Jaffar’s office called. They say it is most urgent that Jaffar meet with you. In person.”
Sameh said to Marc, “As you can see, this is going to be a busy day.”
“It has to do with the missing child.”
“You have found the gardener?”
“Maybe.”
“This is from Duboe?”
“Yes. And he says we can ask for nothing else.”
“He gave you an address?”
In response, Marc handed Sameh a slip of paper. As soon as Sameh read the words, he felt his blood congeal in his veins.
Leyla must have noticed his response, for she offered, “I can manage the bank meetings. I was with you at the last conference. I know what is required.”
“Thank you.” Sameh said to Aisha, “Call Jaffar and tell him I will speak with him later. Probably not until tomorrow.”
“But-”
“Explain about the child. He will understand.” Sameh turned to Marc. “Let us go.”
Leyla asked, “Where shall I say you have gone?”
Sameh hesitated, then said, “Better you do not know.”
Chapter Eleven
M arc followed Sameh down the main staircase and out into blinding sunlight. The car seat was so hot that Marc thought his skin would blister. If Sameh noticed the heat, he gave no sign. Instead, he started the motor and pulled from the guarded parking lot. When they had merged with the traffic, Sameh said, “Qasr Al-Nehayeh.”
The pronunciation was so different from how Duboe had said the words, it took Marc a moment to realize Sameh had just named their destination.
The Iraqi lawyer asked, “Do you have any idea what that name signifies?”
“The only thing Duboe said was, you would know.”
“He is right about that.” Sameh held the steering wheel with the thumb and forefingers only. The windows were all rolled down, and the air rushing against Marc’s face was blow-dryer hot. “The name translates as The Palace of All Ends.”
The way Sameh said the words fit with the scene beyond Marc’s window. A row of concrete barriers narrowed the road from four lanes to one, snarling the traffic. Beyond the barriers was the burned-out hulk of a car. Nothing but the skeletal frame remained. No windows, doors, hood, tires, motor. All blown away by the same blast that had demolished the building behind it.
“The Palace of All Ends once had another name,” Sameh continued. “But I very much doubt you will find anyone who remembers what it might have been. During the reign of Saddam Hussein, no one who was sent there ever returned alive.” Sameh shot him a dark look. “Leyla’s husband was sent there. At least, that was the unofficial word I received. We never heard anything for certain. When I went there to ask about him, I was told that if I ever came back, I would be made permanently welcome.” Sameh hesitated a moment, then confessed, “I have never told Leyla or my wife that I made the journey.”
Marc had not spent enough time with this Iraqi to justify this sense of familiarity. But there was a genuineness that emanated from Sameh’s every word, every gesture. As though they shared something below the level of words or even thought. Marc found himself hoping Sameh felt the same way. He wanted this man to like him. Which made no sense at all. He had spent three years caring about very little. Most especially what others thought of him.
Marc said, “All I know is, Duboe thinks your gardener has landed there.”
Sameh was silent for a time, then said, “I never thought I would see you again, Mr. Royce. I thought you would pose your request only to find yourself facing the same barriers that have halted me. Instead, you come in and you charm two ladies who have made a profession of being hostile to strange men. And now I am driving you to a place I never thought I would ever return to. It is indeed a day for surprises.”
They turned onto a six-lane divided highway and left the city behind. Sameh said, “Mr. Royce, this highway is a perfect example of the difference between you, the occupier, and me, the Iraqi national. You Americans know this highway as Route Irish. Up ahead is BIAP, your name for our airport. Behind us is the Red Zone, a place of danger and adrenaline and death.”
Marc resisted the urge to ask him again to use his first name. “And for you?”
“This is our Ring Road. Since the occupation began, it has taken on another name. We call it Terror Highway. Normal citizens avoid it whenever possible. The American convoys all use it, you see. Both the military and civilian convoys are heavily armed. These convoys represent two things to an Iraqi. First, if you drive too close to one, their guards will shoot you. Second, the suicide bombers who target the convoys might take you out as well. So any time a convoy is spotted, traffic becomes manic. Thankfully, we have no convoys today.”
The steering wheel gave nervous jerks, almost as though the car shared the driver’s concern. Sameh went on, “It is a small thing, the different names you and I give a highway. But such small things are important to the Arab mind. They are used to teach our children. Not the highway name, but rather how such small items represent larger issues.”
Sameh pointed through the windshield to where a trio of battle tanks guarded the main entrance to the city’s airport. The blast walls blocked their view of everything except the tank’s gun ports and, in the far distance, the airport’s main tower. Sameh said, “I very much doubt that a single soldier stationed there knows of the Ring Road’s other name. Or if they do know, that they care. The same is true for the way you see our city. When your soldiers take Route Irish, they lock and load. They stick to the main routes, each of which has a new American name. Everywhere else is just part of Indian country.” Sameh glanced over. “But for me, Mr. Royce, the Red Zone has a very different name. It should, since my family has lived in this region for twelve hundred years. I call it home.”
– – They arrived at the prison just as the sun reached its zenith. Even so, inside the high walls it seemed to Sameh as though everything was draped in shadows. The Palace of All Ends was located beyond the city’s northern perimeter, out past where the poorest hovels met the desert. The prison was surprisingly clean and very well maintained. The gloom lingered, however. The silent whispers raised Sameh’s hackles as they passed through security and followed a guard into a large bullpen of an office. The guard filled out a form, one Sameh had not seen before. Thankfully, he had little contact with the criminal system these days. His work was primarily corporate, or intensely personal. Hunting lost children was not his only work as a mediator and go-between, merely the most painful.
Because they arrived without the standard permits to speak with a prisoner, because they came outside of normal visiting hours, and because an American was involved, Sameh’s request needed to go to the warden. But as the guard started to usher them out of the office, Sameh unfolded the gardener’s photograph and asked if this man was being held in the prison. The guard was clearly uncertain whether or not he should respond. But in the end, he nodded before telling Sameh loudly that all questions needed to wait.
They
cooled their heels on a bench in a hallway smelling of industrial disinfectant. Marc held to an almost animal-like stillness for quite some time before asking, “How do you want this to go down?”
“What an extremely American question,” Sameh said. “As though anything about this life is how I want.”
“I understand that.”
Sameh turned to him. “Do you really?”
“I might be completely new. But everything I’ve seen so far tells me you’re a good man dealing with an impossible situation. You’re stuck in a place and a time so bad you have every reason to leave. But you don’t. You said it yourself. This is your home.”
There was a risk of underestimating this young man, Sameh realized. “Why are you telling me this?”
“We’re building trust. Between each other, and also with others who are not here but who are waiting to see what we can do. That’s what today’s trip is ultimately about.”
“We’re here to save a child’s life.”
“Of course. But for a second, let’s look beyond the immediate. Let’s suppose you had the chance to describe a perfect outcome. What would that be?”
“You are referring to the missing child or to your missing friend?”
“As far as we’re concerned, right now those two problems are joined at the hip.”
Sameh nodded slowly. He let his gaze drift over the featureless walls, down to where a slender man in prison garb washed the floor. The inmate’s motions were slow, drawing out the work as long as possible. Sameh briefly wondered at a life so dull, so meaningless, that washing a prison floor would carry a hint of freedom.
Sameh said, “I am hoping that we will be given permission to speak with the prisoner. We need something that will cause this prisoner to help us. I had planned to offer him my services as an attorney. If he agrees to help us, I will throw myself upon the mercy of the court tomorrow. Ask a judge to grant this prisoner his freedom, in exchange for information regarding the location of this child. But first I need to be certain this is indeed the gardener, and that he will give us what we seek.”
“We don’t have until tomorrow,” Marc replied. “You said it yourself. A child’s life is at stake here. What if the judge forces you to wait a couple more days?”
“That could certainly happen.”
“What if somebody at the courthouse hears your appeal, makes a call, and the kidnappers vanish?”
“That too is a possibility.” Sameh felt his unspoken fears coalesce into a gnawing ache. “And if that indeed happens, I dread to think about the fate of the little boy.”
“What is the child’s name?”
“Abdul.”
“If you ask me, Abdul’s safety is our first priority here. Can you get to a judge tonight?”
“Impossible. The prisoner is not my client. Legally I have no direct connection to the case. I will have to speak with the prosecutor and the defense attorney, if there is one. Only then can I appear before the judge. It could be several days. Because this is Ramadan, it could take even longer.”
“Okay. So your plan carries some considerable risk for little Abdul.”
Sameh studied the man seated next to him. “You have a plan.”
“Maybe.” Marc outlined what he had in mind.
When he was done, Sameh needed a moment to gather his thoughts. “You can do this?”
“I only know I can try.”
Sameh gazed at the opposite wall, searching his mind for immediate flaws, and found none. “Are you quite certain you are not part Arab?”
“Pure American mongrel.”
“It is a good plan,” Sameh said slowly. “Excellent, in fact. Make your call.”
– – The first words from Carter Dawes after Marc identified himself were, “You’re in place less than two days and you want out? This must set a new record.”
“You said you could help me,” Marc replied. “I’m calling to accept your offer.”
The pilot who had flown Marc into Baghdad laughed out loud. “You already got yourself in hot water?”
“Not exactly.” Marc sketched out what he needed.
“You want me to light up the sky over a kid?”
“Yes. But it’s more than that. I’m trying to establish my credentials with the locals.”
“Where are you now?”
“The prison I just told you about.”
“Who else is with you?”
“The lawyer.”
“You mean they sent you into Indian country without backup?”
“That was part of the deal. Can you do this or not?”
“I have no idea. When I said you could have whatever you wanted, I meant, you know, firepower.”
“I don’t need guns. Not now, anyway. What I need is pressure. From somebody high enough up the food chain to make this happen. Outside of channels.”
“You mind if I call the guy, you know who I’m talking about, right? The man pulling both our strings.”
“Call whoever you like. But make it fast. Please.”
“I read you loud and clear. As in, either it’s fast or you’re toast.”
“Roger that.”
“Stay on the line. Let me see what the old man says.”
Chapter Twelve
M arc was still working the phone ninety minutes later when the senior guard finally appeared. He glanced at Marc seated on the bench, leaning over and cupping the cell, trying for what confidentiality he could muster. The officer’s expression said it all. Another self-important American ignoring everything except someone outside this world. As though he could dismiss the reality that everyone else was forced to deal with by talking on his cellphone. For once, Sameh found himself wanting to defend Marc’s actions.
But just then he was too surprised to do so. He knew this officer. “Major Lahm? Hamid?”
The policeman’s eyes widened. “Sameh el-Jacobi? Is this truly you?”
“Indeed.” Sameh gestured for Marc to remain exactly where he was and took a step away. “This gentleman needs another few minutes.”
“Naturally.” The policeman’s voice carried a discreet note of scorn. “What brings you to my domain?”
“You are working here?”
“I am responsible for the night shift,” Hamid Lahm replied. “A disgrace, is it not?”
Sameh then understood why they had been forced to wait so long. “The guard with whom I spoke went to the warden.”
“Assistant warden,” Lahm corrected. “The warden is a friend of the government. He has been here once, when the justice minister visited. Otherwise, he is officially unwell.”
They spoke with the ease of two friends, which they once had been. Sameh went on, “So the assistant warden heard we were waiting, and refused to meet with us. Since a meeting would have forced him to remain after his shift was over.”
“Actually, the assistant warden left at noon. It was the senior guard who kept you waiting. The assistant warden also suffers from ill health. Especially during Ramadan.”
They exchanged the weary smiles of people who managed to find humor in lost hours. Sameh asked, “How have you been?”
“I am alive. I have a job and a salary. All my family have survived.”
“For this I give sincere thanks.”
“And you?”
“We are well. Most of us. You heard about Leyla’s husband?”
“The judge? Yes. I heard. He was a good man.” Lahm gave that a moment’s silence, then asked, “The guard tells me you have a photograph.”
“Yes.”
“May I see it?” Major Lahm only needed a moment to confirm, “This man is downstairs in our secure wing.”
“What is the charge?”
“A few nights ago, he and two others made the mistake of robbing a grocery while an off-duty police officer was inside shopping.” Lahm’s smile was chilling. “This man was the only one to survive.”
“It is hard to call such events a gift, but that is how it seems.”
“Who is the American?”
“His name is Marc Royce.”
At the sound of his name, Marc raised his head. “They’ve still got me on hold.”
Sameh showed him an upraised palm. He said to the officer, “Marc may have found a way to help us with a very delicate situation.”
“He is military?”
“Officially, he is nothing. An accountant, sent by a retired bureaucrat to search for a missing friend. But there is more to the situation than meets the eye.”
Lahm studied the man still crouched over his phone. “Do you know this man?”
In Arabic, the question signified more than being acquainted with someone. What Lahm meant was, could Marc be trusted. Would Sameh vouch for him. In such uncertain times, the questions carried great weight. Lives might well depend upon Sameh’s answer.
Which was why Sameh took his time responding. “We have not yet broken bread and shared salt.”
Lahm’s eyebrows lifted. “Yet?”
Sameh nodded. “I am beginning to think that a time may come when we will do just that.”
Lahm examined the American with a different light in his dark gaze. “How can I help?”
“There is the matter of a missing child,” Sameh replied. “But first let us see if this American can deliver.”
As though in response, Marc slapped the phone shut and rose to his feet. “Please excuse my rudeness.”
Until that moment, Sameh had not known whether the officer even spoke English. But the policeman offered his hand and the words, “Major Hamid Lahm.”
“An honor, sir. Marc Royce. I am sorry to have caused you to wait.”
“Please. It is nothing.” Lahm’s English was heavily accented but understandable.
Marc said to Sameh, “It’s all arranged.”
Sameh was still sorting through which question to ask first when a wide-eyed officer popped into the corridor and almost shouted, “Major Lahm! You have a phone call! It is the Justice Minister himself!”
– – Sameh and Marc were ushered through the bullpen and into Major Lahm’s office. Tea was served while forms were filled. Major Lahm stopped by long enough to confirm that pressure from Washington had resulted in the justice minister offering them whatever assistance they might need. The officer then left to order the prisoner brought into an interrogation room. When they were alone, Sameh explained, “Major Lahm is far more than he appears.”