by Davis Bunn
“Now why is that, I wonder.”
“One of the women who took off with Alex, we had a thing going.”
“The missionary, Hannah Brimsley?” Marc watched the specialist jerk a brief nod. “Can you tell me why they’ve disappeared?”
“All I know is, they were working with this other guy on something big.”
“The missing Iraqi, Taufiq el-Waziri. He was Christian?”
“No, man. His family is big-time Muslims.”
“So maybe he converted?”
“You don’t use that word around here. It’s like lighting a fuse with these people. But the way Hannah talked about this secret gig of hers, I’d say something more was going on than one local coming to faith.” He took off his sunglasses, revealing two strips of lighter skin across forehead and cheeks, and eyes hollowed by the strain of his life and his loss. “There aren’t supposed to be missionaries operating inside this country. Hannah was here as aide to the Green Zone pastor. He’s an okay joe, but he’s in way over his head, just marking days off his calendar and praying he makes it home in one piece.”
Marc heard the unspoken. “Hannah Brimsley is different.”
“The lady lives for her God. She spent two years studying Arabic before she shipped over. She took care, she worked it smooth. She lives to bring Jesus into this world. And there’s just no telling what’s happened, or where she’s…”
Marc watched in the mirror as Josh Reames fought down his panic and restored the iron calm of an officer operating behind the lines. The way Josh loved this woman resonated deeply. Marc asked, “You met her over here?”
“Last year at a church gig.” His voice had lowered one raw octave. “I’d studied the Book, man. For years. But she was the one who taught me what the words meant.”
“Love,” Marc said softly, remembering. “Hope. Peace. Healing. Life.”
The hand lifting Josh’s cup shook slightly.
Marc said, “Since we’re into confessions, let me tell you, I don’t know what I’m doing. Until last week, my world was a prison called Baltimore.”
That brought Reames back from the edge. “Duboe said you were a bookkeeper.”
“The correct term is forensic accountant. Sort of an operative with numbers.” Marc waved that away. “The important thing is, I’ve been dropped in the deep end.”
“Which means you’re open to advice.”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay, Royce. Here’s what you do. Call Duboe. He’s over there in the Palestine Hotel, sitting next to the embassy jerk. He’s why I’m here. Duboe’s been made by every watcher in Baghdad. You, on the other hand, do not want to show up on that list. The Hotel Palestine is strictly for people taking the armored limo from the airport to the Green Zone, have dinner with the ambassador, bunk down at the safest hotel in Baghdad, and jet out again. They’re the sort who’re after photo ops and bragging rights. The embassy jerk ordered Duboe to arrange this meet because he wants you made by the bad guys. And taken out.”
Marc opened his phone and dialed the number. “What do I say?”
“Tell Duboe there’s been a bomb alert aimed at the hotel. Which there was. Only it was last week. But you don’t need to say that. The embassy jerk will bug out and scuttle back to the Green Zone.”
When Duboe answered, Marc fed him the line. Barry Duboe had clearly been expecting it. There was the sound of the phone being muffled, then Duboe asked, “Think you could find that alley where the troop carrier dropped you off?”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow morning, ten o’clock.”
Marc shut the phone and said, “Why does somebody at the embassy want me gone?”
“You’re the last thing they expected.”
“Which is?”
“A success.”
“How can they say that? I haven’t done what I was sent out here to do. Alex and the other three are still missing.”
“Maybe so. But they hear the justice minister talking about some mystery American being involved in locating kidnapped children, and they worry. Then the top imam’s son, Jaffar, he talks about the role this American played and how great it is to see Americans caring about Iraqi children, and they worry some more.”
Marc started to ask Josh Reames how he knew all this, but decided it didn’t matter. “Is there a tie between the kidnapped children and the missing Americans?”
“That’s a good question, Royce. Here’s another. Are you ready for a walk on the wild side?”
“With you? Absolutely.”
“That’s the right answer.” Josh Reames finished his tea and rose from his stool. “Duboe gave me your cellphone number. When the time is right, I’ll invest a dime. You be ready to move.”
Then he was gone.
Chapter Twenty-One
S ameh was still mulling over the confrontation near the Persian market when he arrived at his destination. He recognized Hassan’s bodyguard, one of several outside the cafe’s entrance. The guard bowed stiffly and motioned Sameh through the entrance.
The structure, called a mudhif, had been erected on a strip of ground made barren by a Western bomb. Its name was drawn from the furthest reaches of Iraq’s history, during the epoch when Abraham was called by God to leave his homeland. Iraq’s civilization had occupied the fertile marshland extending north from the sea. This region gave rise to numerous city-states, including one called Ur, the idolatrous place from which Abraham was told to flee.
The marshlands had no stone and few trees. What they had in abundance were reeds and clay. The most elaborate of their structures, the mudhif, were vast assembly halls floored in brick, with walls and ceilings fashioned from woven reeds. These reed walls could be as much as four feet thick, like a cluster of reed baskets laid atop one another. They were also immensely strong. Halls like this one might be forty feet wide, with soaring sixty-foot ceilings that required no supporting pillars. Six art-deco chandeliers illuminated the space.
Hassan el-Thahie was on his feet long before Sameh arrived at the table. He embraced Sameh in the Arabic fashion, then touched his right hand to his heart in a sign of deep respect, then embraced Sameh again. Such a greeting in this place, surrounded by members of the nation’s power structure and the city’s intelligencia, was a public acknowledgment of debt. Sameh assumed this was why Hassan had requested they meet.
At the far end, two women in headscarves and the traditional flowing gowns stood upon a raised dais and alternated reading passages written by the Imam Hussein and daughter Zainab, founding members of the Shiite heritage. As Sameh took a chair, a gong sounded behind the serving counter, signifying the official moment of sunset. Servants instantly appeared through the kitchen door, depositing tea and a hot porridge called harisa.
Hassan scowled at the steaming bowl and declared, “Hungry as I am, I can’t bear the stuff.”
Sameh felt no such revulsion. “As a child, I lived on it. I could eat it three times a day.”
Hassan slid his bowl across the table. “Be my guest.”
The two women completed their reading and left the stage to resounding applause.
Hassan leaned over and said, “Observe how we are being ignored.”
Sameh looked around. “I see nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Over there is the brother of the justice minister, the man whose career you might have just saved. At the table to your left is the interim speaker of parliament. The long table up by the stage holds three members of the Alliance that could well form the next government.”
Sameh saw only a vibrant, noisy crowd. To his eyes, the scene hearkened back to the best of his memories. For centuries, these literary salons were a staple of Iraqi life, the one place where all the groups making up this ancient nation could set their differences aside-religion, tribe, politics. Here everything was open to discussion and challenge. Shia sat with Sunni, Jew with Muslim, Christian with Zoroastrian. Tribes that were officially at each other’s throats could meet together, eat together
, and laugh together. Anyone who violated the mudhif’s peace was declared an outcast for life, and those who detested this melting-pot atmosphere were banned. As a result, the literary cafes became a vital outlet of expression and hope. The places were filled all day, all night, with writers, historians, academics, religious clerics, housewives, politicians. All came, casting aside the chains of their conservative, hidebound society. They talked, if not as friends, at least as Iraqis.
Saddam Hussein had changed all that, along with so much else. Within three years of his taking power, the literary cafes were gone. Those refusing to shut their doors suffered mysterious fires. Some went underground, only to be infiltrated by the dictator’s spies. Visitors who dared speak against the regime simply disappeared.
Sameh looked around the crowded chamber. If he were to ignore the metal detector by the door, the armed guards, and the watchful waiters who were probably also armed, he might actually find a reason to hope.
He turned to Hassan. “Tell me what I am missing.”
“I am a major financial backer of several politicians you see here tonight. I have a great reason to celebrate. My young son is returned to me. So why am I not surrounded by allies wishing to share my joy?”
Sameh rose to his feet. As he did so, several faces glanced over, then swiftly turned away.
Hassan rose to stand beside him. “In my office, you told me to call my allies in the government. You were hurrying to meet the Americans, and I desperately needed your help, so how was I to dispute your orders? Even so, there were two problems with your request. First, as I said, I had already been phoning these people. From the moment I heard my son was taken, I called. And no one returned my calls. What is more, I cannot even establish why they refused to speak with me.”
Sameh could see it now. The tables holding the power elite seemed determined not to look their way. The two of them had become pariahs.
Hassan went on, “I give them financial aid. I ask nothing in return but for Iraq to form a stable government. How could they refuse to help me in my hour of need?”
Sameh continued to probe the chamber’s mystery. “And the second problem?”
“Remember what you said. Talk to my friends in government.” Hussein gripped Sameh’s arm in frustration. “Iraq has no government. They have been struggling to put together a majority since the election. The old cabinet remains in power, and Parliament spends its days wrangling over the crumbs of our future.”
“You think the old regime kidnapped your son? Why would they do this? To fragment the Alliance?”
“I know it sounds crazy. But what other reason could there be?” Hassan released Sameh’s jacket. “Shall I walk over and show you what it means to be a pariah?”
“Stay where you are.” There was nothing to be gained from a public confrontation, though Sameh was curious just how it might play out. “I have no logical reason, but my gut tells me the disappearance of your son and the four adults are tied together somehow.”
Hassan was shaking his head long before Sameh finished relating what he knew, and what Marc and Major Lahm had supposed. “This makes no sense.”
“I agree. But neither does the kidnapping of your son, followed by days of silence. Unless…”
“Yes?”
Sameh shook his head. The idea hovered just beyond his mental horizon, a whisper that he could not decipher. “Anything you might be able to discover would be considered a debt repaid. Anything at all.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
M arc traveled into the Green Zone by way of another Rhino. He saw far less of the journey than when entering Baghdad. The armored personnel carrier that lumbered down the alley and opened its door and dragged him inside was manned by a weary and saddle-worn team. Hands pulled him in, other hands slammed the door, still others pointed him to an empty seat. Marc wasn’t certain they even saw him. Or cared. He was just another package. One more duty to get done before they could head for safety and hot showers and a meal that didn’t taste like the desert.
The troops blocked the windows and spoke only to call out terse warnings, the voices of wired soldiers pushed beyond human limits. They halted by the Green Zone barriers, endured the sharp-eyed inspection by the Iraqis on duty, then trundled around the antitank barricades. Marc watched the soldiers start to slump before the lieutenant ordered them to stand down.
They dropped him off in front of a palace that had seen better days. Bullet holes were visible from the checkpoint, gouges and stabs that dug into the wall framed by American and Iraqi flags. The palms lining the street and shading the guardhouse were dusty and limp in the heat.
Barry Duboe stood on the embassy checkpoint’s other side. He greeted Marc with a grin that divided his face in two, the lower half smiling a welcome, the upper half squinted in warning.
Wordlessly, Duboe led him deep into the embassy’s bowels, past glittering chambers that had been segmented with cheap shoulder-high partitions. They entered a windowless room that might once have been a large closet. Duboe asked the young man behind the desk, “He ready for us?”
“Yes, sir.” The young man showed Marc the expression of a cat playing with its meal. Bored anticipation, bloodless humor. “Go right on in.”
Jordan Boswell was a typical white-bread bureaucrat. Not tall, not short, not skinny, not thick. Gray suit. Thinning brown hair. Coldly intelligent eyes. “This him?”
“Marc Royce.” Barry Duboe selected a chair between the side window and the filing cabinets. Positioning himself out of the firing line. “Jordan Boswell, deputy to the United States ambassador.”
Boswell’s voice was pompous, New England, nasal. “How dare you force me to change the venue of our meeting? You should be grateful I don’t have you arrested after that little charade.”
He lifted his chin slightly to emphasize certain words. The result was less than impressive, since the chin held all the strength of a china doll. “And don’t try to tell me about a bomb threat. This is Baghdad. There’s always a bomb threat.”
Boswell did not offer Marc a chair. Marc gave the man nothing in reply.
“If you’d been around at all, you’d know you live with threats. You get on with the job. Which brings us to the reason for this meeting.” Boswell planted a narrow elbow on his desk and aimed a finger at Marc. “You have no idea what is happening on the ground here. You are hereby ordered to cease and desist. Tell me you hear what I’m saying.”
“Sir,” Marc replied.
“You do not have authorization for such an insane act as attacking a civilian house with only a group of prison guards. You think this is about rescuing some kids? A hundred more will disappear today! What are you going to do, rescue them too? Stay around and become a one-man kiddy patrol?”
Marc maintained his posture. Playing the stone statue. Focusing upon a point at the center of the man’s forehead, a half inch below his receding hairline.
“Your juvenile pranks could have cost us thousands of lives. Try another stunt like that and I will personally crush you.” Boswell rose to his feet. “This is a war zone. You follow orders. You observe and report. That was the remit handed you before you left Washington. That is what you will do. That and nothing more. Tell me you understand.”
“Sir.”
“Get out.”
– – Duboe ushered him through the door and into what had probably once been the palace’s main gallery. He checked Marc front and back, then decided, “You look singed. But no gaping wounds. Knowing Boswell, I’d call that a good day.”
Marc expected to be led back through security and out into another waiting armored carrier. Instead, Duboe pointed him onto a bench by the side wall and sat down next to him. “The Americans who live out where you’ve been operating, the subcontractors and the aide agency types, they call this area the Green Republic.” Duboe’s voice was barely above a whisper. “As in, a world and a law unto itself. Boswell is a perfect example of the Republic’s other face. He and his ilk are out to reshape the
world in their own image. It makes for some friction with the Iraqis in power, since the ’Racks have the impression this is their country.”
The hall was high-ceilinged and floored in marble. A few palms rose from giant tubs. Otherwise the space was utterly unadorned. People scurried by in every direction, their footfalls echoing like rain. All the military Marc saw were officers. “Why would the ambassador’s aide consider my investigation so important he has to issue a personal warning?”
“That’s a good question, Royce. Here’s another. How much is the answer worth to you? Because what you’re asking could cost you everything.” Duboe’s dark humor had faded from his voice. “Don’t mistake Boswell for a toothless wimp. He will bust you. He will bust you so bad you’ll have years to weep over all the lost chances.”
“He’s scared about something,” Marc interpreted.
“No, Royce. Boswell is angry. In the space of a few days you’ve threatened to upset his power structure. He wants to send you back. But Walton and his allies have blocked him. He sees that as a temporary setback. If you stick around the Red Zone, Boswell will find a way to take you out without getting his hands dirty.” Duboe gave him a sniper’s inspection, hard and unblinking. “You’re the one who needs to be scared.”
Marc met his gaze. “Alex is still missing. Unless Walton orders me home, I’m staying on the hunt.”
Duboe rose to his feet. “In that case, it’s time for round two.”
– – The U.S. ambassador’s office overlooked an interior garden that in its heyday must have been something to behold. Eight imperial palms poked their fringed fingers fifty feet into the cloudless blue sky. Each tree’s circular plot was trimmed in hand-painted tiles joined to a winding brick path. Marc counted four fountains, only one of which now worked. The flower beds were unkempt, with weeds overwhelming the remaining blossoms. Limbs of miniature trees drooped from their burden of overripe fruit. Brilliantly colored birds flitted about, no doubt perplexed by the disarray.
The ambassador was a well-polished version of the Washington power broker. He wore the requisite pinstriped suit with the same ease as his smile. His gray hair and his gleaming skin and his buffed nails spoke of careful and constant attention to the package. He pointed Marc into the visitor’s seat opposite his desk and said, “You have managed to make some powerful enemies in quite a brief period, Mr. Royce.”