Lion of Babylon

by Davis Bunn

  The Arab pastor agreed, “They have great hearts.”

  “Hands for healing,” the woman went on. “Especially Claire.”

  The Western pastor said, “It is true what we hear, the three may have been kidnapped?”

  Sameh and Marc exchanged another glance. Sameh said, “You do not know?”

  “We know they missed leading their weekly small groups. Nothing else. When I asked at the embassy, I was told they were on vacation. But we’ve since heard rumors that something might be very wrong.”

  “They are not on holiday,” Sameh told them. “They have been abducted. We are trying to find them.”

  “And this Iraqi? He was with them?”

  “Taufiq el-Waziri went missing the same day. We assume the disappearances are connected.”

  “I have never heard this name.”

  The associate confirmed, “I make it a point of knowing all the locals who become involved here. It is vital, you understand?”

  “For safety.”

  “For everyone. This Taufiq el-Waziri has not come.”

  Marc said, “We’ve heard a rumor that he eloped with Claire Reeves.”

  “Impossible.” The Arab pastor said it with utter certainty. “Claire was a very dear friend of Hannah’s. I saw them both quite often. If Claire had a significant relationship, I would have known about it.”

  “This doesn’t make sense,” Marc said.

  One of the elderly women said in broken English, “We will pray. For our friends.”

  Marc thanked them and started to turn away. But Sameh halted him. “Before we go, could I ask that you pray for us as well?”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  T hey left the underground chapel at ten minutes after nine that night. Sameh was distracted and overwhelmed by all he had seen and heard and felt. He found the way back to the main road, trying to remember where he had left the car. Behind them, the market was still noisy and bustling with activity.

  Marc asked, “Are you all right?”

  “I feel as though my head is disconnected from my body.”

  “Maybe I should drive.”

  “I would appreciate that.” Only later, when they were headed down the thoroughfare, did it occur to Sameh to ask, “Did I invite you home with me?”

  “Miriam did. When I phoned.”

  Sameh knew he should be weary. It was, after all, the end of a long day, one of many. But he did not feel the least bit tired. He felt exhilarated. He studied the man behind the wheel of his car. “How are you feeling?”

  “A little stunned. What exactly happened back there?”

  “My friend, I have been asking myself the same thing. And the only answer I have is…”

  “A miracle,” Marc finished softly.

  It felt very good to have his thought completed by another. “One that has been two thousand years in the making.”

  “First we survived a car bomb, now this.” Marc glanced over. “Two miracles in twelve hours. It’s been quite a day.”

  “Hamid did not speak of miracles. He said you were the one to spot the bombers. You saved hundreds of lives. Perhaps thousands. Hamid disliked taking the credit. He says you insisted.” Sameh pointed ahead. “Take the first right off the traffic circle.”

  Marc did as he was told. “Your car drives terribly.”

  “You think I don’t know this? Watch out for the truck-”

  “I see the truck. Where do I go now?”

  “Left. Turn left. Why would you not allow Hamid to share the credit with you?”

  “I’m not here to shine. I’m here to find my friend.”

  “Do you see the donkey cart?”

  “Yes, Sameh, I see the cart. Are you always this worried?”

  Sameh winced as Marc came within millimeters of the cart’s wheel. “You remind me of my niece.”

  Marc said, “It was something, working the stakeout with Hamid and Josh. It reminded me of my training days. The instructors push new recruits very hard, right to the point of total collapse. Training is meant to break you down and refashion you into part of a unit. Then you get out in the field, something goes down, and you don’t need to think. The response, the reaction comes naturally. And then you discover that you’re not just a group of guys. You’re a unit. You think and you move and the other guys are thinking and moving in tandem. I’ve never had that happen with strangers before.”

  “I don’t understand what you just said,” Sameh said. “But it was good, yes?”

  “Amazing.” Marc rocked slightly behind the shuddering wheel. “It was also why I didn’t need to share the credit. We were all one out there. I can’t explain it any better than that.” Marc’s phone rang. He held it to his ear, then handed it over. “Miriam.”

  When Sameh came on the line, his wife demanded, “You do not think to turn on your telephone?”

  “I’m sorry. I forgot.” He said in English, “Take the next left.”

  “Marc is driving?”

  “Yes. I was… well, he offered.”

  “A guest has arrived.”

  “What? Now?”

  “He is standing in your living room. Have you eaten?”

  “Miriam, no, but this is not the time-”

  “Now is the perfect time. Where are you?”

  “Three blocks away.”

  “Good. We should not keep Jaffar waiting.”

  Sameh looked over at Marc and said in English, “The Imam Jaffar? Now? At my home?”

  “He called half an hour ago and said it was urgent. What was I to tell him?”

  Marc asked, “The imam you were telling me about?”

  Miriam said into his other ear, “Hurry.”

  – – A dark-suited bodyguard stood beside the imam’s parked car. The aged gardener, the only house guard Sameh had ever required, stood framed by the partially opened gates. He waited until Sameh’s car pulled in, then shut and locked the gates. Clearly he was made nervous by the bodyguards’ silent presence.

  Another bodyguard was stationed on the walk leading to Sameh’s front door. He offered a quiet salaam to the lawyer and a silent inspection as Marc passed.

  A third guard opened the front door from within. He bowed a welcome as Sameh entered his home.

  The three females of the household were excited by their unexpected visitor. Bisan stood near the imam’s chair. The imam was smiling with what appeared to be genuine pleasure. Leyla was settling a plate of delicacies on the coffee table, next to the imam’s cup of tea. Sameh could hear Miriam scurrying about in the kitchen.

  Jaffar rose to his feet. “Sayyid, I beg your forgiveness for disturbing your night and your home.”

  “There is nothing to apologize for, I assure you. The Imam Jaffar is always welcome.”

  “You are too kind. As is your lovely family.”

  They then entered into a particularly Arabic gesture. It happened between friends who came together in formal circumstances, and resembled a ritualistic tug-of-war. The one who came as a supplicant was expected to win, at which point he would bow with an imaginary kiss on the back of the other man’s hand. This gesture was left from the era of despotic kings. Any petitioner could bring a grievance before their ruler. Just as the ruler could order the death of anyone who dared disturb his day. Or his evening.

  Jaffar, well versed in the art of Arabic diplomacy, swept his robes up in one hand as he leaned over Sameh’s hand. “Again, Sayyid, I beg forgiveness. But my matter could not wait.”

  Sameh had encountered such entreaties for years, as much a part of the legal process as lawyers and judges. “How could the presence of the imam be anything other than an honor?”

  Jaffar straightened. “And this is your new American ally.”

  Only when Sameh turned did he realize how tense Marc had become. Marc clearly thought Jaffar was here to deliver bad news. So instead of introducing Marc, as was expected, he asked Jaffar in Arabic, “Do you bring word of the missing four?”

  “If only I did. But my s
ources have heard nothing.”

  Sameh turned to say in English, “Marc, the imam has no news about Alex and the others.”

  “You are sure?”

  “He just told me so.”

  Bisan moved over and looked up at their American guest. “The imam does not lie.”

  Marc allowed the girl to take his hand and lead him over to where the two men stood. Sameh gestured to the sofa. “Please join us.”

  Jaffar shook Marc’s hand in the formal style, bowing slightly, then lifting his own hand to his heart, a gesture of friendship and trust. The two women stood at the entrance to the kitchen. Miriam asked, “Husband, will you and Marc take tea?”

  “Please.”

  Jaffar remained standing until Marc was seated. He then took the chair opposite and said to Sameh, “I would be most grateful if you would please translate.”

  “It would be my honor.”

  Jaffar possessed a prince’s demeanor, firm and compassionate at the same time. His voice was mild in the manner of one who had trained himself to give nothing away, most especially his passion, which Sameh suspected ran very deep. “I have heard of the Sayyid Marc’s role in finding the children. I have heard how he assisted Hamid Lahm and his team in being released from their prison duties. I have heard how he saved a mosque and a market full of lives. Of all these things that I have heard, there is one event that has touched me more deeply than all the others. Shall I tell you what that one thing is?”

  As Sameh translated, he observed Jaffar’s bodyguard drifting silently into the room’s opposite side. Sameh found himself wondering when, if ever, the imam had seated himself with an American who did not represent Washington powers.

  While Sameh finished translating, Marc turned to smile his thanks as Leyla set a cup of tea before him.

  Jaffar continued, “When I heard how Marc Royce was so deeply affected by the reunion between abducted children and their families that he had to leave the hospital, I knew this was indeed a special man. A man strong enough to care for those he has never met. A man who weeps for our wounded land. A man who is bound by edicts that are not cast by man or by time. Here, I told myself, is a man I can trust.”

  Jaffar leaned forward, his robes rustling softly. “I believe that you hear the same clock as I. The one that counts away the minutes of life remaining to our missing friends. That is why I came tonight. Because we cannot afford to wait for the sun. For we do not know, you and I, how many sunrises our friends have left to them.”

  Marc asked, “What do you need from me?”

  “How can I say,” Jaffar replied, “until I know what you have discovered?”

  Marc glanced at Sameh. He must have found the agreement he sought, for he turned back to the imam.

  Marc started at the beginning. He described his arrival at the airport. He told about Barry Duboe’s introduction to Sameh. Somewhere around the part where he met with Josh Reames for the second time, the two women began drifting back and forth from the kitchen to the living room. Bisan offered small plates and linen napkins to each of the men and refilled the cups. Plate after plate arrived, filling the coffee table with fragrant fare.

  The imam ate, no doubt because it was expected of him. Sameh remained busy translating. Several times he had the impression that Jaffar understood every word Marc spoke, but used the translation to hear things a second time and reflect.

  Marc spoke in his normal terse fashion and yet held nothing back. It was clearly a professional debriefing. When he was done, the imam turned to the ladies and thanked them for a delightful meal. Then he said, “Please thank the Sayyid Marc for his open candor. I come to him as a supplicant. What does the sayyid think we should do now?”

  Bisan had walked over to stand beside Marc’s chair. She whispered, “I think you are hungry. I will fill your plate for you.”

  Jaffar watched the child and said, “I apologize for monopolizing everyone’s time. But I feel a pressing need to see the whole picture.”

  Leyla asked, “Should we offer your bodyguards refreshment?”

  “It is very kind of you,” Jaffar replied, “but they do not eat when on duty.”

  “Not even tea?”

  The guard in the room pressed his open palm to his chest in a gesture of thanks, but declined.

  Marc ate because Bisan was watching. Then he said, “May I ask a couple of questions of my own?”

  When Sameh translated, the imam replied, “How could I refuse the Sayyid Marc anything?”

  Marc leaned forward so his posture mirrored the imam’s. “Confidential questions.”

  Imam Jaffar said to his bodyguard, “Please join your fellows out front.”

  “Effendi-”

  “For a moment only. I will call you.”

  Miriam said, “Bisan, come, child.”

  “But-”

  “Bisan.” This from her mother.

  The girl cast Marc a pleading glance, then reluctantly followed the other two women from the room.

  Marc said to Sameh, “I believe we need to tell him what happened tonight.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “It could be… a very grave risk.”

  “Yes.”

  Jaffar no doubt saw Sameh’s very genuine concern. For he said, “I have a confession to make.”

  “Yes?”

  “The reason I gave for coming tonight, it was not complete. Not even the main one.” He studied Marc across the table. “To say more reveals what many know, yet which I normally cannot mention. An hour ago, my father left for Karbala. He is to speak tomorrow at the shrine. At my request, my father ordered the vizier to go with him.”

  When Sameh finished translating, Marc settled back in his seat. “I think I understand.”

  “Understand this also, Sayyid Marc. I am here with my father’s blessing. This is very important to me. My father and the vizier are part of the same generation and heritage. But how they view the future could not be more different. My father shares many of the vizier’s concerns. But he trusts me. He recognizes that these are different times, and this new generation requires different answers. But the vizier does not agree with my father’s vision.”

  Marc responded by describing the chapel service. Sameh found his chest and throat tight with concern as he translated. There were so many issues here, so many barriers. Centuries of animosity. And more recently, the destruction of so many church communities. Many conservative mullahs preached messages of hatred. Entire Christian villages had been reduced to ashes and memories.

  But when Marc was finished, Jaffar studied the American for a long moment, then said, “The Koran speaks of Jesus nearly one hundred times. I see that surprises you. Yes. It is true, though too many mullahs struggle to find a way to discount this. The Koran also contains a very clear commandment to maintain peace with people of the Book, our ancient way of referring to Christians and Jews.”

  Jaffar’s eyes closed as he began reciting from memory a series of ayas, Koranic verses that spoke of Jesus and his miracles. Marc’s expression showed his astonishment as Sameh translated.

  Jaffar went on, “The Koran has many names for Jesus. He is called ‘The Righteous One, The Pure One, The One Without Sin, The Word of Truth, God’s Witness, The Bringer of Good News, The Intercessor, The Straight Path, The Word of God.’ ” Jaffar paused, then finished with one final name: “ ‘The True Path to Follow.’ ”

  Sameh had no idea how long they sat there, the three of them, locked in silence. Then from upstairs came the chimes of the hall clock. Jaffar glanced at his watch. It was enough to return them to the room and the issues at hand.

  Marc said, “I had expected the church to be the connection point. But the pastors had never heard of Taufiq.”

  “And I have never heard of this church. Though that is hardly a surprise.”

  “Taufiq never mentioned to you any connection with the other three?”

  Jaffar settled back in his seat. He stroked his beard thought
fully. “Not in so many words. Taufiq and I share many interests. Even so, he would understand that some things are better left unsaid. He knows I face serious challenges.”

  “The vizier,” Marc offered.

  “The vizier on his own is nothing. He is an old man who should leave the halls of power and spend the remainder of his days in some dusty classroom, tending his books and troubling his students. It is who the vizier represents that threatens and troubles. If they caught the faintest hint of this conversation, they would…”

  Sameh stopped translating. He had no choice. For Marc no longer sat facing him.

  One moment the three of them had been seated together, speaking of mysteries beyond the night. The next the American had somehow transported himself across the room. Marc crouched where the parlor joined with the front hall, peering at the front door. Then he lowered himself further and checked out the front window.

  The only sound was Jaffar’s tightly indrawn breath. Marc raised one hand, a small but unambiguous command to freeze. Which both men did.

  Marc whispered, “The house has a rear entrance?”

  Sameh’s heart was suddenly crowding out his breath. “Not to the outside. All interior doors open onto the courtyard, which is enclosed.”

  “What about a safe room? A cellar, maybe.”

  Then Sameh heard it. A faint cough, like the night was choking. “Through the kitchen.”

  “Go.”

  “But-”

  “Now. When you’re safe, call Hamid. Jaffar, alert your headquarters.”

  Sameh was in the process of rising when he heard another sound. Frantic slap-slaps upon the floor.

  Bisan raced across the living room, her arms outstretched, her face contorted in silent panic.

  Bisan had been listening. The women probably had no idea the girl had slipped back into the dining room. And now the child feared losing someone else who had earned a place in her life. All this Sameh processed mentally in the space it took to draw one breath and shout one word, “Bisan!”

  Marc’s reaction was even faster. He spun and caught the young girl, lifting her off the floor. He threw her across the room into Sameh’s outstretched arms. Her astonishment was so great she did not make a sound.