by Davis Bunn
And then there were the Iranians. Unlike his father, Taufiq was very angry with the Iranian government. Out of respect, he never spoke of this openly. But Taufiq absolutely distrusted Iran’s leaders and everything they said. He believed they were terrified of the future and of change, of their loss of power and influence. He was certain the Iranians wanted nothing more than a weak and downtrodden Iraqi regime. One that could be manipulated and turned against the Americans.
Taufiq held his father in the highest regard. He would never do or say anything to bring dishonor upon the family. But Taufiq thought that when it came to Iran, his father was too trusting. The Iranians had centuries of experience in coating their lies with honey. They did not want a strong Iraq. Most especially, they did not want a strong democratic Iraq. Such a powerful and stable society could only heighten the threat Iran already was experiencing from its own younger generation.
Taufiq was convinced that the Iranians were the enemy. Not the Americans. Never the Americans.
The young men did not go silent as much as simply reach the end of their explanations. Marc was no longer looking at them. Sameh watched as the American stared at the table between his hands. He nodded slowly.
Finally, the elder el-Waziri said, “So it is not true, what the vizier claims. My son has not eloped with the American nurse.”
“I am the newcomer here,” Marc replied. “But I now know two things for certain. First, your son never dishonored your family’s name with either of these women. And secondly, your son meant no dishonor through his study with Alex and his friends.”
“And yet it was this study that has caused his disappearance.”
“If Alex thought he could bring the peace of Jesus one step closer to this wounded land, he would walk into the jaws of death. I assume the others thought the same way. Including your son.”
“Three Americans,” the imam said. “Sacrificing their lives. For Iraq.”
“Willingly,” Marc replied. “Without a moment’s hesitation.”
The father covered his eyes with his hands. Jaffar glanced at the table’s opposite end, but he directed his question to Marc. “Why is it, I wonder, that the American officials refuse to acknowledge these people are missing?”
“Because there are people in our government who have no time for Jesus,” Marc replied. “They consider these gatherings a threat to their concept of Mideast stability. They fear the reaction if these secret meetings ever became known. A rising up of the conservative elements. A twisting of this into greater volatility.”
“Which would also explain,” Jaffar said, “why my inquiries to our own government came up with nothing.”
“They are terrified,” Sameh agreed. “Conflicted. Disturbed.”
“Both sides, the Iraqis and the Americans, see something at work within their own ranks over which they have no control,” Jaffar said.
“It is one thing to join with Sunni and Kurd and Christian beneath a banner of politics,” Hamid Lahm said.
“It is another thing entirely to add the name of Jesus to it all,” Jaffar finished.
There was no obvious reason why hearing the imam speak that holy name should cause shivers to race through Sameh’s body. But he could not deny the effect, not when his voice shook as he translated.
Only Marc seemed unaffected. He asked through Sameh, “Is there anything else you think we should know?”
The pair exchanged glances, then the stockier young man said, “We have been warned.”
“When was this?”
“The night before last. They found us at a cafe where we often go. They said we must not speak of anything. They mentioned you, the American who asks the wrong questions. We said we did not know you, or anything of value. They said that was the correct answer, the only one which would save us from joining those who are lost.”
Jaffar nodded slowly. “My chief aide has received a similar warning.”
Marc looked from the young men to Jaffar and back. “Describe the ones who warned you.”
“Five of them,” the slender man replied. “Bearded. They spoke Arabic with a Farsi accent.”
“Six accosted my aide,” Jaffar said. “He is certain they were all Iranian.”
Marc asked, “When was this?”
“Today. While I was with my father, visiting the hospital.” Jaffar’s smile held no humor whatsoever. “They vowed their next attack would not fail.”
There was a long silence. Then Sameh asked the question for them all. “What do we do now?”
Marc returned to an inspection of the table between his hands. He finally said, “I have an idea.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
T hey left the el-Waziri compound and drove straight to Sameh’s home. Along the way, Marc outlined what both Sameh and Hamid declared was as solid a plan as they could imagine.
Upon their arrival, Sameh placed two calls, one to Hassan and another to the Tikriti elder whose son had been returned. Both men had promised to look into a matter raised by Marc’s plan. Both also promised to call Sameh back as soon as possible. But Sameh had a lifetime’s experience with Iraqis and their unfulfilled promises. Which meant he was utterly amazed when both men called within the hour.
After Sameh had passed on the two men’s reports, Marc said he needed to phone Ambassador Walton. He stepped into the inner courtyard and talked for some time, pacing across the sunlit tiles as he spoke. Then he reentered the living room, seated himself, declined tea, and enclosed himself in a silence so complete it stifled even the irrepressible Bisan. Marc remained encased within his silent armor until his phone rang. He listened for a few moments, then closed off and started issuing instructions.
In the process, Marc Royce underwent a remarkable change. Gone was the diffident newcomer, the careful young man feeling his way. In his place was a general. Handing out orders and setting plans in motion, speaking in a voice that did not need volume to create the necessary whirlwind of action.
They paused for a meal that included Hamid Lahm and the two men from his team on duty outside the home. As he ate, Marc remained quiet, distant, focused on something only he could see.
As they were preparing to depart, Sameh whispered to Hamid Lahm, “Do you see the difference in Marc?”
“Of course.” Hamid Lahm showed a warrior’s gaze, hard as flint. “Our friend is taking aim.”
– – The sun was setting over Baghdad as they journeyed to the Green Zone. Sameh’s bodyguards followed the police vehicle as it forged through the traffic. Sameh was no longer concerned about being identified with the Americans. He had been forced to declare himself. They had attacked his family and his home. They knew all about him. These were facts.
The question was, what did he do now? Emigrate to America? Or stay? The dilemma robbed him of any vestiges of peace. Baghdad was more than simply his home. His family’s name was irrevocably woven into the city’s fabric. Sameh watched Hamid Lahm’s driver slow for the first checkpoint and wondered if this was how Abraham had felt. Another Iraqi, bound to his land and his heritage, invited by his God to become an exile.
As Major Lahm rose from the car and returned the Iraqi guard’s salute, Sameh suddenly realized he had not asked God what he should do. It shamed him, this moment of truth. He lived according to his faith. More recently he had been surrounded by miracles and the divine presence. Yet he had failed to ask his Maker which direction he should take. Faced with the impossible choice, he had stood alone. And bewildered.
As Lahm slid back into the car, Sameh shut his eyes. It did not take long. Nor did he have any sense of an answer. But when he lifted his head, he knew a substantial transition had been made. He no longer felt alone.
– – The Green Zone had formerly been the city’s riverside district. The bends and curves of the river formed a natural barrier around three sides. The main Green Zone entry road was six lanes, illuminated by towering batteries of arc lamps that defied the sunset. The road weaved its way around three sets of concrete ba
rriers, each curve guarded by tanks.
Sameh had entered the Green Zone on five previous occasions, though none of them recent. Each time he had parked his Peugeot at the zone’s southeastern border, endured hours of inspection, then walked over a mile to the embassy compound.
This time was very different indeed.
They were waved through the third barrier and discovered an army Jeep waiting for them. An American MP saluted and reported that the ambassador sent his greetings. Hamid Lahm actually smiled.
The embassy compound occupied a part of what had formerly been called the Presidential Guest Palaces. This had been Saddam’s garden paradise, with over three dozen palaces assigned to his cabinet, family, and cronies. Some of Saddam’s guests had resided there for twenty years.
The narrow lane wended its way around palms and formal gardens and large parklands. The grounds were still very neat, but the Americans had managed to turn the Green Zone into something that was functional, austere, military. The embassy was as Sameh recalled, a grandiose structure fronted by private guards and military vehicles and flags. A pair of helicopters passed overhead as Sameh opened his door.
After a lengthy signing-in and inspection process, Major Lahm indicated a man waiting nervously by the embassy entrance. “You know him?”
Marc gave him a single glance. “I’ve seen him. We weren’t introduced.”
“Is he important?”
“He thinks he is. He’s chief aide to Jordan Boswell, the ambassador’s second-in-command. Boswell wants to see me fail. The only other time I’ve been here, that guy enjoyed watching his boss roast me.”
Lahm observed, “He is not enjoying himself so much now.”
“No.”
Boswell’s assistant did a tight little two-step as Marc, Lahm, and Sameh crossed the security perimeter. He pointed to Major Lahm and demanded, “Who is he?”
“With me,” Marc replied.
“The ambassador didn’t say anything-”
“Where is the document I requested?” When the aide started to protest, Marc cut him off with, “I told Duboe when we set this up. Either I get the document or we’re out of here.”
The aide glared, but clearly he found something in Marc’s face that stifled any further protest. “Wait here.”
Eventually, Boswell’s aide reappeared, bearing the mottled look of one who had been blistered by an unheard exchange. He clutched typewritten sheets down by his side. He glared at them and handed Marc the papers. “We can go now?”
Marc remained where he was and studied the papers thoroughly. Finally he said, “Take me to your boss.”
The aide backed up a pace. “They are expecting you in the comm room.”
“We’ll get there. But first I have to see Boswell.”
“It’s eight o’clock at night.”
“I know what time it is. I also know Boswell is here. He wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Marc gestured with the hand holding the pages. “After you.”
Jordan Boswell was with the ambassador. Boswell stopped in mid-sentence when they all appeared in the ambassador’s doorway. “Why did you bring them here?”
Marc replied for the distraught aide, “I insisted.”
“You insisted?” Boswell’s face was made for tight fury, all narrow angles and sharp edges. He said to his assistant, “You actually let this twerp shove you around?”
Marc said, “Yes, Boswell. And so will you.”
Jordan Boswell rose from a straight-backed chair positioned by the corner of the ambassador’s desk. The ambassador remained seated. The desk’s empty surface reflected the ambassador’s placid expression. Behind the ambassador, the interior garden was illuminated by spotlights planted at the base of the palms, the trees glowing like golden sentries in the waning daylight.
Boswell snarled, “I should have ordered you shot the day you set foot in Iraq.”
“Two problems with that. One, you didn’t. And now you can’t.” Marc crossed the room and placed the documents on the ambassador’s desk in front of Boswell. “Sign these.”
“What?”
“All three copies. Print your name below each signature. Then your aide will notarize it.”
“You’re out of your skull.”
“There’s going to be a point when you feel you can renege on this. You’ll claim the ambassador went against orders and played the lone cowboy. Your signature will keep that from ever happening.”
“You are the product of a sick mind.”
“It’s that or I go downstairs and tell Ambassador Walton and whoever else he’s got on the link that the deal is off. All because of you.”
The ambassador spoke for the first time since the group’s arrival. “Jordan, sign the documents.”
“They can’t make me.”
“You think you’ll have any career left after Walton takes aim at you? Sign the forms. Next week it’ll be over and forgotten, and you’ll still have your office and your title and your future.” The ambassador took a pen from his pocket and slid it across the desk. “Sign.”
Boswell’s face had taken on a splotchy array of colors, purplish across his cheeks, blistering red on his neck and forehead, bone white around his mouth and eyes. Suddenly he lunged for the ambassador’s pen, scribbled furiously, then flung the pen at a side wall.
Marc said, “Now notarize them.”
The room remained frozen until the ambassador slid a notary stamp from his drawer and motioned to Boswell’s aide. “Do as he says.”
Nervously the staffer stamped and initialed each signature.
The ambassador rose from his chair. He rounded the desk, took the papers, tapped them together, then handed them to Marc and said, “Let me walk you out.”
As they left the office, Sameh could not help but glance back. Jordan Boswell sat staring at the empty spot on the ambassador’s desk. His face was drained of all color.
The ambassador led them back across the main gallery, over to a marine standing sentry before an elevator. The ambassador said, “These gentlemen are expected in the comm room.”
“Sir.” The marine punched in a code, then held the doors open with one white-gloved hand. “This way, gentlemen.”
As the doors were closing, the ambassador said, “Well done.”
– – Inside the elevator, Marc handed Sameh the signed forms. “These are for you.”
Sameh glanced at the documents, realized what he held, and could not speak.
Marc explained, “The ambassador is officially granting your family green cards. Show this letter to the consular officer. His name is there in the second paragraph. Your family needs to go with you to make it official.”
Sameh stammered, “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“There’s nothing that needs saying.” Marc’s voice was not so much calm as toneless, as though his mind had already moved on. “Go there tomorrow.”
Sameh folded the pages and realized his hands were shaking. “I still have not decided.”
“I know. But this no longer is an offer contingent on anything. You simply are granted the right to emigrate. Now or at any point in the future.”
Sameh folded the papers and slipped them into his jacket pocket, then pressed his hand hard upon his chest, as though trying to fit his heart back into its proper position. “I and my family are further in your debt.”
Marc looked at him. “You take in an American who has never been in the Middle East. You invite him into your home. You teach him. You shelter him. You trust him.” He turned back to face the doors. “There’s no debt. There never has been. We are friends.”
Hamid Lahm hummed a single note. Sameh doubted the police major was even aware he made a sound. Even so, Sameh felt as if his entire body vibrated with the tone.
He glanced over. Marc’s attention remained fastened upon whatever waited on the other side of the doors. As the elevator stopped, Sameh found himself wondering if this was how God answered prayers. First, by teaching the need to ask. Sec
ond, by using friends as holy messengers.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
T he elevator deposited them on the second basement level. Barry Duboe was there waiting when the elevator doors opened. “I’ll take it from here, Corporal.”
“Sir.”
Barry nodded a greeting to Marc and Sameh, then turned to the third man. “You’re Major Hamid Lahm?”
“I am.”
“Heard good things.” Barry Duboe gestured with his head. “Let’s move out.”
Marc noted the unease shared by Sameh and Lahm as they looked around. “What’s the matter?”
“Every Iraqi has heard stories about the bunkers linking Saddam’s palaces,” Sameh said, his voice low. “And what went on down here.”
“All that is behind us,” Hamid Lahm said, but he sounded uncertain.
Every room they passed contained men and women busy with the activities of government and war. The original doors were steel and concrete and over a foot thick. These had been lashed open, with cheap plywood doors fitted into new, smaller doorframes. Sameh could well understand the Americans’ desire never to be locked in one of Saddam’s rooms. The whispers and the ghosts and the memories were just too dreadful a combination.
The secure communications room took up half of one such bunker. The comm room’s floor had been elevated eight inches, like a room within a room. The floor and walls and ceiling were all lined with a padded beige fabric. Light came from two fluorescent strips. Duboe shut the wood and fabric door, sealing them inside. The wall opposite the doorway held a narrow window eight inches high and two feet long. Stacked electronic gear illuminated the otherwise darkened room beyond. A uniformed woman wearing headphones gave Duboe a thumbs-up through the glass.
A desk was bolted across the length of the chamber’s front wall. On it were positioned four large computer screens. A massive flatscreen television hung above them. All five screens showed a blue backdrop emblazoned with the U.S. embassy seal. Speakers had been bolted around the flatscreen, with two more positioned on the desk. A microphone rose from a stand in front of a lone chair. The speakers all clicked to life, and the woman’s voice said, “I have Ambassador Walton on the line.”