Lion of Babylon

by Davis Bunn

  “That I did say,” Leyla agreed. “He carries great sorrow from the death of his wife.”

  “When did this happen?” Miriam asked.

  “Three years ago. She had a stroke,” Sameh said.

  “I thought he was young, this American.”

  “He is. His wife was only twenty-nine. He took a leave of absence from his work. He was with the government then. Intelligence.”

  “He told us he was an accountant,” Leyla said.

  “He is. The director of his agency fired him. He went to night school while taking care of his wife.”

  Miriam said, “He told you all this?”

  “I asked, he explained.” Sameh hesitated, then added, “I think he’s nice too.”

  “I am glad to hear this, since you have never before invited an American to join us for church.” Miriam glanced over at Sameh. “He is truly a Christian?”

  “He attends the same church in America as the missing man, Alex Baird. Marc agreed to come this morning. More than that, I cannot say.” When the traffic came to a stop, Sameh looked at Miriam, then again into the rearview mirror. “Why do you not ask me more about last night?”

  “First, because you are exhausted. Second, because it is everywhere.”

  Bisan announced, “Uncle Sameh is a hero to his people. That is what he said.”

  “Who says this?”

  “The justice minister.” This from Miriam.

  “The justice minister called, and you did not wake me?”

  Bisan said, “It wasn’t the justice minister on the phone.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “He was on television this morning. With Major Lahm.”

  “They wanted you on the television with them,” Leyla explained. “I told them what you have always said to tell people who want to interview you. You are successful because you are not in the spotlight. You live to serve. I told them this. They did not like it. But after the second time I said it, they stopped calling.”

  “But they talked about you,” Bisan said. “They say you are a great man.”

  “Major Lahm phoned as well,” Leyla said. “He and his men are to be reinstated to their previous positions. He wants you to know he owes you a lifetime debt.”

  Miriam said, “We are here, husband.”

  “Eh, what?”

  “The church. Don’t miss your turn.”

  Bisan jammed one finger against the window. “There on the top step. Is that the American?”

  “Yes, that is Marc,” Leyla softly replied.

  – – Marc descended the church steps as Sameh’s car turned into the parking area and was inspected by the guards. When a trio of women emerged, Marc watched them adjust the brightly colored silk scarves around their heads. The little girl could only be Leyla’s daughter. She possessed the same poise as her mother, the same finely sculpted features, the same eyes holding depths of emotion at which he could only guess. Marc felt his chest constrict and could not name the reason. He feared his attention on them would be considered improper, so he focused on his host, Sameh. Yet the three tugged at the periphery of his vision like magnets.

  Sameh seemed to fumble for words. “You are here.”

  “Thanks again for your invitation.”

  “I would like to introduce my family. This is my wife, Miriam. Leyla you already know. And this is Bisan, her daughter.”

  “It is an honor.”

  Miriam had the same beauty as her niece and the girl, only in Sameh’s wife it had been softened by age. She was still slender and held herself as erect as the others. She said, “It is you who honors us, Mr. Royce.”

  “Come,” Sameh said. “I dislike being late.”

  As they crossed the parking area, Bisan asked in her careful English, “You are a secret agent?”

  Leyla said, “Bisan. Is this proper talk for church?”

  “We are not inside yet, Mama. Can he just tell me that?”

  At Leyla’s nod, Marc said, “The correct term is operative. And yes, I was. For six years. But most of the time I rode a desk.”

  “Please, you ride on a desk?”

  “It means I stayed in headquarters. I wasn’t in the field.”

  “You liked this?”

  “Sometimes. Other times it was awfully boring.”

  “But safe, yes?”

  Marc took a careful look at her. “May I ask how old you are?”

  Leyla replied, “My Bisan is eleven. Going on thirty.”

  “Your English is excellent, Bisan.”

  “I learned it from Uncle Sameh. For my papa. He was very good with English.”

  “And many other things,” Sameh replied. “He was a judge. And a giant among men.”

  Miriam murmured, “God keep his soul at peace until the final day.”

  “Come,” Sameh said. “The service is about to begin.”

  The year before his wife had suffered her stroke, Marc and Lisbeth had attended a wedding in an Orthodox church in Washington, D.C. That structure had been relatively new. But there had been an unmistakable aura of age about the place and the service and the rituals. Marc had loved the feeling of being connected to his faith’s ancient heritage.

  The sensation he had known in Washington only hinted at what greeted him here.

  The church’s exterior was typical Baghdad. Whatever color the stucco might once have been was now reduced to grime and raw brick. Power cables were nailed to the wall above the entrance. The steps were cracked and pitted. The entry had once been tiled with mosaics, but all that remained were a few gritty flowers around the edges.

  Inside, however, all this changed.

  The smell was just as Marc remembered, a patina of old incense. It surprised him just how cool the church was, as though the city’s heat was barred from entering, along with so much else.

  The priests were tonsured, their remaining hair forming a circle around their scalps. They were robed in white and gold. The chants were sung without accompaniment, the priests’ voices deep and resonant. Marc felt the words in his chest, in his heart. He rose, knelt, and sat with the four. When the priest began his brief homily, Marc let his mind drift back to the last time he had been in church. How he had cupped Lisbeth’s photograph in his hands, stared at the photograph and wondered about his life. He truly felt that he had come to the turning point, finally recovering from his loss. Ready to move on. And yet, there was that question that had lurked in the shadows: move on to what?

  Now here he was. Seated in the middle of an ancient church, in a land that predated history. Staring at his empty hands. And asking himself the same question. Move on to what?

  When the service ended, Marc remained standing at the end of the pew. The central aisle was blocked. It seemed as though the entire congregation wanted to greet Sameh and shake his hand. The man was clearly uncomfortable with the attention, and yet he handled it well. He was every inch the gentleman, a true aristocrat in his slightly rumpled suit and the dusting of gray in his hair. He had a smile that invited confidences, and a gaze that promised neither judgment nor condemnation. Marc wondered if this was an Iraqi ability, to say so much in silence. But he thought not. He suspected it was more the measure of this man. Marc found himself watching Sameh and the three women who stood around him, hoping they might one day call him friend.

  He was so intent in his reflections that he did not notice the girl’s approach until Bisan stood at his side. “Does church make you sad?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “You looked very-what is the word?” She tugged on Miriam’s sleeve and asked a question.

  Miriam glanced back at him, then said in English, “Distressed.”

  Marc found himself not the least bit uncomfortable about having to explain. Which surprised him. Talking about himself had always been difficult. But this ancient church, and the sharing of a ritual two thousand years in the making, left him not merely vulnerable but willing to confess, “Sometimes I need a place to ask myself impossi
ble questions.”

  For some reason, his words turned them all around. Even Sameh, though Marc would not have thought the man could hear him. Leyla spoke directly to him for the first time that day. “My husband, God keep his soul in peace, used to say the same thing.”

  “I don’t remember that, Mama.”

  “How could you. You were not yet two when he died.”

  “I think I remember things. Or you tell me, and I make them my memories.”

  Something about the child’s words caused Leyla’s eyes to well up. “You are my heart’s delight.”

  Marc wished there were some way to thank them for speaking so openly, in English, so as to include him in the secrets and the love. He said, “Lisbeth used to say I was made to run. But even runners needed a place to stop and think and listen. Even warriors.”

  “Lisbeth was your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am sorry for your loss. So sorry.” Her voice was soft, melodic. “May God grant her eternal peace. And you.”

  Miriam asked, “Please tell me, Mr. Royce. I find it very curious, you see, what troubles you this morning. If you would ask me, today is a day for celebrating. What is the most difficult question you have asked yourself this day?”

  Marc found it impossible to be anything less than honest. “What I should do with the rest of my life.”

  Miriam glanced at her husband, then said to Marc, “I cannot tell you that, of course. But, please, you must join us for dinner, yes?”

  “It would be my honor.”

  “No, no, it is we who are honored. You will come this evening, yes? Good. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Royce. I wish you success with this day. And with answering your questions. All of them.” She glanced at Leyla, then Sameh. “Your question is most important. A very great challenge. It is nice to hear a man willing to ask such questions, even when it makes him sad. Very nice.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  S ameh was not surprised to find Major Hamid Lahm waiting for him in the church parking area. Not after all the commotion he had faced inside.

  Lahm saluted him and spoke in English for Marc’s sake. “Forgive me for disturbing you, here of all places. Miss Aisha told me where I would find you. We must hurry back to your office.”

  Sameh saw Miriam and Bisan off in his car, then joined Marc and Leyla in the same Land Cruiser they had ridden the previous night. “The prison does not miss their vehicle?”

  “The nation’s gaze is upon us. We could ask for use of the president’s palace and be made welcome,” Lahm replied. “You have heard?”

  “My family mentioned something.” As had many of the parishioners.

  “The radio and the newspapers and the television all carry the tale of the rescued children.” Major Lahm turned on the siren and the lights. “My briefcase is at your feet. A file inside contains the information you requested.”

  The file was so bulky as to almost fill the case. Sameh opened the folder and lifted the first item. “But this is perfect!”

  “Some of the children disliked the process,” Lahm said. “I never thought photographing forty-six children could be so taxing.”

  The photographs were done with police precision. Clearly the children’s distress had returned over the unfamiliar experience. Even so, the file contained three eight-by-ten photographs of each frightened face. Leyla leaned forward to look. “The poor little ones.”

  “They are the fortunate ones,” Lahm said, jerking the steering wheel to clear a donkey cart. “If you do not believe me, ask the ones who await you.”

  Sameh glanced back to where Marc sat behind Major Lahm, staring out the side window, his face creased. Sameh started to ask if everything was all right, but then decided such a question was unnecessary. Miriam had the habit of asking questions that probed deeply.

  The American surprised him by saying, “Something about all this doesn’t add up.”

  Lahm glanced in the rearview mirror. “Explain, please?”

  “Let’s go back to the beginning.” His eyes remained focused on the view outside his side window. But Sameh doubted he saw anything at all. “A gardener applies for a job with this client of Sameh’s. How long did he work there?”

  Sameh was about to ask what difference that made when he noticed Lahm’s expression changing, clamping down so it resembled the American’s. Sameh tried to recall. “Hassan said it was a number of weeks.”

  “Okay. So we’ve got a guy who comes in, does grunt work all day long. How did he get the job?”

  Lahm reached forward to cut off the siren.

  Sameh’s voice sounded loud in the sudden quiet. “He was referred to Hassan by a neighbor.”

  “Do you know the neighbor’s name?”

  “I spoke with the man. He owns a store where Hassan’s wife shops. By all accounts, a good man.”

  “We need to ask again. Harder. More directly.”

  Lahm was nodding now. “I can do this.”

  “What is the point?” Sameh objected. “The child has been returned.”

  “No, no, this is good,” Lahm said. “The American is asking the right questions.”

  Marc said, “Why would the kidnappers stick one of their men in with Hassan? We found forty-seven children. Did all of them get taken by someone in the household staff?”

  “Unlikely,” Sameh said.

  “Impossible,” Lahm put in.

  “So we have one family who was targeted. We need to know why. We need to know what else was different about this kidnapping.”

  Leyla spoke up then. “They never asked for ransom.”

  All three men studied her, Lahm through the rearview mirror. Sameh said, “They often wait a while. The family grows more and more distraught. Hassan’s family is very rich. They would have paid anything for Abdul’s safe return.”

  “Maybe that’s it,” Marc said. “But what if they weren’t after money at all?”

  One of Lahm’s men stepped into the street and waved them into a parking area. Sameh started to tell them they were still two blocks from his office, but it seemed a trifling issue in the face of what he was hearing. He asked, “You aren’t suggesting there is a connection between the kidnapped children and the missing four?”

  “Excuse, please,” Lahm said. “Which four are these?”

  “Four adults,” Sameh said. “Three Americans. And a friend of Imam Jaffar.”

  “This is public knowledge?”

  “Exactly the opposite,” Sameh replied. “We are constantly hearing that people in power want this to go away. Some even claim it did not happen at all. Which is why Jaffar asked me to help.”

  As the Land Cruiser slid to a stop, Lahm’s policeman raced around and started to reach for the major’s door. Lahm lifted a hand. The policeman took a step back, almost quivering with impatience. Lahm turned in his seat and asked Marc, “This is why you are here?”

  “Yes. Because there are people inside the American power structure who are pretending the four were not made to disappear. My former boss does not believe these stories about them taking a vacation. I don’t either. Alex Baird and the others were abducted. I need to know why, and how we can get them back.”

  Lahm turned to again face forward. If he even saw his man’s urgent signals from beyond the vehicle’s manufactured coolness, he gave no sign. “It could be coincidence. The children and these four adults vanishing at the same time.”

  Marc nodded. “Probably is.”

  Sameh said, “There are people being made to disappear every day.”

  “Even so,” Lahm said, “I for one distrust coincidences.”

  “We need to look below the surface,” Marc said. “Just in case.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  A s they proceeded down the street toward his office, Sameh remained gripped by the thought that Hassan’s child might somehow be connected to the missing four adults. What was more, the American had come up with this possibility. The stranger. The one who had no experience in the Arab
world. Seeing connections that were supposed to be invisible.

  Sameh knew his people as only one could, who was both joined to them and yet forever at a distance. He was a Christian Arab, something the most conservative elements of his society sought to extinguish. He knew how much pride his people took in being forever misunderstood. They did not trust any outsiders who thought they knew the Arab heart. His fellow Arabs loved the hidden, the secret, the myriad intricate connections that made the past live alongside the present. It was impossible that Marc Royce could be identifying an unseen link such as this.

  And yet the more Sameh pondered the mystery, the more certain he became that there was indeed a connection. How, he did not need to know. Not just then. His hunches had been proven right too often in the past. And the instant Marc Royce had spoken, Sameh had known the American somehow had pierced the veil.

  Major Lahm interrupted his thoughts, speaking loud enough to be heard above the traffic. “We have managed to isolate the majority of the press. They did not like it, of course. Which has been the morning’s greatest pleasure.”

  “Forgive me, I was…” Sameh’s voice trailed off.

  The sidewalk ahead of them was a solid wall. People jammed the front gates leading to his office building and spilled into the street. Temporary barricades had been set up, forcing the traffic from four lanes down to three. A second barricade had been established just beyond the building’s main gates. A forest of cameras and lights and shouting reporters competed with the traffic and the bleating horns and the police whistles. And the crowds.

  Major Lahm and his men formed a shield and forged their way through. People filled the lobby, the stairs, the upstairs hall and his own waiting room. They waved photographs and grabbed at Sameh. Their faces were creased with fear and woe. Their eyes were red, though most had no more tears to shed.

  Once Sameh was safely inside his office, Major Lahm and Marc took over crowd control. Lahm and his men worked the building’s exterior and the street. Using Leyla as translator, Marc brought a semblance of order to the people inside. Occasionally, Sameh went to the office doorway and observed Marc’s natural authority at work. The man did not raise his voice. He simply expelled a family who refused to do as he instructed. The rest reluctantly settled down and followed orders.