by Davis Bunn
When Leyla and Bisan had come to live with them, they had moved a small table into the kitchen. Bisan would sit in her high chair while the women prepared the adults’ meal. Over time it had become everyone’s favorite place.
The predawn light softened the texture of the courtyard tiles so they seemed to glow. Sameh carried in a chair from the dining room. “Good morning.”
“We can move to the dining table, my husband.”
He kissed his wife’s forehead and seated himself. “Here is better.”
When Miriam started to rise, Leyla said, “Stay where you are, please. Let me cook.”
Miriam rose anyway, rinsed their teapot, and put water on to boil. Leyla brought him a cup and refilled the milk pitcher. The two women made a smooth dance around each other.
As Sameh was finishing a plate of eggs, Bisan crept into the kitchen. She wore pajamas with sleepy kittens on a pink background. She crawled into Leyla’s empty place and cradled her head on her arms.
As Miriam refilled Sameh’s cup, she bent over to kiss the child. “Will you take anything more?” she asked her husband.
“Toast. Please,” Bisan murmured without lifting her head. “Not too dark. Butter. Marmalade. Spread evenly out to the edges.”
“You must sit up straight if you are going to eat, dear one.”
In response, Bisan did a boneless slide from her chair and crawled into Sameh’s lap. Sameh stroked her hair and fed her the last bite of his own toast.
“Let poor Uncle alone,” Leyla said from the stove.
“The girl disturbs no one,” Miriam replied. “Especially not Sameh.”
“She’s fine here,” Sameh affirmed.
Leyla asked, “Will you tell us what happened last night?”
“Yes.” Sameh hesitated and glanced down at the child in his lap.
“Let her hear it,” Leyla said with a shrug. “It involves her, and whether we like it or not, she will know everything soon enough.”
Sameh described his visit to the Green Zone, the confrontation with Boswell, the ambassador, the elevator, the comm room.
When he was finished, Miriam asked, “Where are Marc and the others now?”
Sameh glanced at the wall clock, then at the rising sun. “They wanted to cross the border before dawn.”
“Iran,” Miriam whispered. “They have gone into-”
“Marc is fine,” Leyla calmly announced. “And we have work to do, don’t we, Uncle?”
He stroked Bisan’s hair. “Indeed so.”
Leyla asked, “What was the document Marc and the ambassador argued over?”
“It was not the ambassador who quarreled, but his aide.” Sameh explained about the official letter granting them green cards, whenever they wanted to go to America. The women became utterly still as he spoke. Even Bisan lost her sleepy demeanor. Sameh hesitated, then described how he had prayed for guidance back at the Green Zone gates. And how it seemed that Marc was the answer. As Sameh spoke, he knew this was indeed the most important revelation of all.
Any response from them was cut off by the ringing phone. Miriam glanced at the clock. Ten minutes after six. Phone calls at this time meant either another kidnapped child or someone had been arrested and was being questioned.
Sameh deposited Bisan in her mother’s lap and reached for the phone.
An American woman asked, “Is this the lawyer Sameh el-Jacobi?”
“Who is speaking, please?”
At the sound of the English words, Leyla and Bisan asked together, “Is Marc all right?”
“Ambassador Frey wishes you a good morning, sir. He wants to know if you might come for your green cards.”
“What, now?”
“He has made arrangements for someone to assist you. It will mean you don’t have to wait.” The woman sounded as though she was reading a prepared script. “It would be better if you could come as quickly as possible.”
Sameh had an Iraqi’s experience with conversations meant for listening ears. “We will leave immediately.”
Chapter Forty-Five
T he first bus lumbered around a rocky cleft and stopped as an ancient stone hut came into view. The Iranians had constructed a rough front porch, little more than a raw-plank veranda with a canvas overhang. The porch held a bunk with woven leather straps and a table with one chair. A lone cup steamed on the table. When Josh and his men slipped back in through the bus’s open door, Marc asked, “The guards?”
“Not going anywhere for a while. Locked up tight inside.”
Marc thumbed his comm link. “Hamid?”
“I am here.”
“We’re good to go. Give your men the final check.” He said to their driver, “Move out.”
Eons ago, an earthquake had dislodged a portion of the cliff face. The road threaded its way around boulders larger than the bus and descended to the riverbed. Beside them, the meandering stream flickered in the early light.
Duboe said, “Target is eleven hundred meters ahead.”
Marc said, “Any more guards this side?”
“Nothing moving between us and the perimeter.”
“Check the entire village one last time.”
While Duboe was silent, the buses passed behind yet another giant boulder and entered a narrow sandy patch. Marc keyed his comm link and ordered, “We stop and prep here.”
As the vehicles halted, Duboe said from his screen, “Two guards patrolling near village entrance. Got another on roving patrol, the fourth either asleep in one of the houses or is off the grid.”
Josh muttered, “Not good.”
“We can’t worry about that now,” Marc said. “Keep your eyes open. What else?”
“I make one guard standing to far side of the target building. My guess is the entrance is in the alley and not on the front of the house. A second guard appears to be seated where the building meets the cliff. Legs splayed out, maybe asleep.”
They off-loaded and gathered behind the rear bus. There was no chatter. When they were geared up, Marc keyed his earpiece and said, “Comm link check.” He got a forest of thumbs-up.
Then Hamid said, “We also want to blow up missiles.”
Josh grinned. “My man.”
“This threat is to our country,” Hamid insisted.
Marc said, “Josh and his men are prepared for this type of sortie.”
Hamid bristled, but softly. “What, you think we do not train? We are not ready?”
Josh stepped between them. He clapped Hamid on the shoulder. “Who is your top guy in the field?”
Hamid did not hesitate. “Is me. Then Yussuf.”
Marc said, “I need Hamid on point for the retrieval. Especially now that we’re after kids who don’t speak English.”
“You heard the man,” Josh said. “Tell Yussuf to lock and load.”
Hamid jerked a nod. “Is good.”
Marc said, “I need one of your team with me to balance things.”
“I’ll switch,” offered Duboe.
“That works.”
Josh said to Hamid, “I want a favor in return. Hannah Brimsley.”
“The missionary,” Hamid acknowledged.
“We’re engaged to be married.”
Hamid and Duboe both stared. Hamid asked, “Is true?”
“Anything happens, you tell the lady I loved her to the end and beyond. You got that?”
“End and beyond. Is nice. Warrior’s poetry.” Hamid settled his hand upon Josh’s neck. “Go with God, my friend.”
They stood like that for a moment, Iraqi and American, then Josh stepped back and motioned to Marc. “Maybe you want to step over here with us.”
Seven of them gathered at the border of the pine forest. The air was hushed, the only sound that of water trickling down the stream. Marc fit himself into the circle, and Josh said, “Join up.”
The seven men linked arms around shoulders. Josh started, “God, we’re about to enter the valley, and we ask that you make the shadows our friends.”
Jos
h kept it short. He hesitated at the end, then offered a special prayer for the lady, but his voice broke over saying the name. So Marc said it for him. Hannah Brimsley. As they disbanded, Marc heard other names being whispered. He added Alex.
Duboe was standing close enough to hear. He started to speak, then shook his head and turned away.
Marc said, “Let’s move.”
Chapter Forty-Six
I needed until this morning to fit it all together,” Sameh told them after they had dressed and climbed into the car. “When I woke up, two memories had bonded. One was of Marc battling with the ambassador’s aide on our behalf, protecting us against future risks that I would never have imagined even existed. The other was of standing in the underground church, holding the hand of Marc on one side and a Sunni or a Shia on the other. I don’t even know which.”
They followed Sameh’s new bodyguards, who drove a navy blue Hyundai. The women’s security detail remained tight behind them in another vehicle. Sameh had insisted on driving himself so they could continue their conversation in private. The three women watched him with a singular intensity. Leyla said, “Tell us why this was so important, Uncle.”
“All my life, my first instinct upon meeting a person has been to identify their background. It is so ingrained as to be subconscious. I name them as American, Sunni, Shia, Persian, Kurd. But that moment in the church, we were all simply people in need. Imperfect and wounded and broken. And I saw the answer was Jesus.” They slowed for a traffic circle, which was good, for the recollection left Sameh with blurred eyes. “It seems so simple, speaking these words. But I feel as though barriers have fallen from my mind. From my heart.”
They were silent as Sameh steered the old Peugeot into the stream of early morning staffers approaching the first Green Zone checkpoint. The traffic crawled forward, making slow but steady progress. Roving guards walked between the lines of cars, inspecting each through the windows. Sameh said, “In that moment, there was no religion. No creed. Just the fact that Jesus lives. I feel…”
When he hesitated, Bisan pressed, “Tell us, Uncle.”
“When I look back, I feel I have used my heritage and my church as a means of keeping others at arm’s length. I am Sameh el-Jacobi. I uphold an ancient Christian tradition. I am this. I am that. But as I look back upon that moment, holding hands together, I realize that I need to spend more time simply being a servant of Jesus.”
Miriam said, “I would like to go with you to that underground church, husband.”
“And I,” Leyla said.
“Me too, Uncle,” Bisan said.
“Nothing would give me more pleasure than to share this experience with my family.” He reached over. “Passports, everyone.”
The Iraqi soldier accepted their papers, then astonished them all by coming to attention and snapping off a salute. “Mr. el-Jacobi. You and your family are expected, sir.”
“Pardon me?”
“Your escort is that Jeep.” The soldier fitted a whistle to his lips and blew a sharp blast. The barrier that was lifted only for presidential convoys rose into the clear dawn air. “Your guards can wait in the small lot there to your right. Proceed, sir.”
Sameh drove his family into the Green Zone. It was such a simple thing to say, but normally impossible to do. Most Iraqis could not enter the Green Zone at all. Bisan leaned out through the open window and gaped at everything. The towering palms, the barricaded guard stations, the Jeeps on patrol, the hurrying officials, it all seemed fascinating to her. Miriam and Leyla murmured as one palace after another came into view, all fronted now by sandbags and sentries and checkpoints.
They drove past the embassy’s main entrance and followed the Jeep into a side circle. One of the marines left the Jeep, walked back, and opened Miriam’s door. “Straight along the sidewalk, please.”
“Thank you,” Sameh said. “Come, Bisan.”
A dark-suited woman already had the glass doors unlocked and open before they were halfway down the walk. “Mr. el-Jacobi? Hello. Anne Hickory. I’m the ambassador’s private secretary. We spoke this morning.”
“An honor, madame. Might I present my family. Miriam, Leyla, and Bisan.”
Miriam said, “We apologize for disturbing your morning.”
“No problem, ma’am.” She paused long enough to lock the door after them, then led them forward. “This way, please.”
They followed the woman through a series of hallways and into a large room filled with a battery of desks. Two men stood by the far windows, talking softly. When Sameh entered, the United States ambassador approached with his hand outstretched. “Mr. el-Jacobi, thank you for coming.”
“How could we refuse an invitation from the American ambassador?”
“Please allow this gentleman to have your passports.”
Sameh passed them over. He lowered his voice to ask the ambassador, “Any news about Marc and the others?”
“They made it past the Iranian border. Since then we’ve had no word.” The ambassador saw Bisan press against her mother’s side, and added, “This is to be expected.”
Leyla asked, “Can you tell us if you learn anything more?”
“Of course.” He motioned to Sameh. “Give me a number where I can reach you.”
Sameh passed over a business card. “English on one side, Arabic on the other. My cellphone is there in the corner.”
The ambassador checked it, nodded, and stowed it in his pocket. “You’ll know when I know.”
He motioned for Sameh to step away from the others. He drew several sheets of paper from his pocket. “You know of the imam’s plan to denounce Iran today?”
“I was present when he announced his decision.”
The ambassador slid the pages back and forth between thumb and forefinger. “You understand there are conflicting positions within the government.”
“Both yours and mine, I’m afraid.”
The ambassador had a politician’s face, features made for the spotlight. Even his smile of approval carried secret depths. “Your green cards are granted without obligation or limits. What I’m about to ask is a request only. It comes both from me and from the voices you heard on the comm link in our basement. If you feel you can’t perform this task, it in no way affects your freedom to emigrate whenever you wish.”
“We discussed this in the comm room. I said I would help.”
“If only it was possible to trust the word of every person I dealt with,” the ambassador said.
“Tell me what you need.”
“There are twenty-one names here. Seventeen men, four women. All senior members of the Alliance who have either recanted their position and thrown their weight behind the conservatives, or plan to do so today. All but three have lost someone close to them.” The ambassador handed over the pages. “I need to ask that you contact these people without mentioning my name. Washington cannot be seen to take an official stance on who forms the next Iraqi government.”
“I understand.”
“But if or when you connect, you may tell them the message comes from me personally. Stress that last word. This is not an official declaration. But let them know I am deeply involved.”
“If I have a problem, may I contact you?”
The ambassador pulled out one of his own cards and scribbled on the back. “Don’t go through the switchboard. This is my private number. Either I or Ms. Hickory will be available day or night.”
“I would not dream of calling unless it is a matter of critical importance.”
“That is the word to describe this situation. Critical.”
“If I manage to contact them, what shall I say?”
“Just this. Don’t give up.” The ambassador narrowed the space between them. “Hold fast to hope.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
T he pines covering the valley had adapted to their arid surroundings. The trees were stunted, with gnarled limbs and roots that fought the rocky earth for a hold. As Marc and his team walked fo
rward, the needles muffled their movement. The Iranians noted how the others moved and matched them step for step.
They walked to the right of the single-lane road. Josh was on point. Marc kept him just within sight. Josh’s remaining team flanked their progress from the road’s other side. Behind Marc walked the Iranians, close enough for Marc to hear Fareed’s breathing. Duboe and Hamid’s men shielded the rear.
As they slowly approached the lone cottage marking the village’s entrance, Josh and two of his men flitted forward. When they all regrouped by the cottage, the two guards roving that end of the village were down and out. Hamid and Yussuf slipped into the mist and returned with the third guard. While the three were lashed together and stowed inside the hut, Marc and Duboe surveyed the terrain. The central lane of the village was utterly still.
Marc pointed Josh forward. “Check the way ahead.”
The mist drifted low to the ground, flicking tendrils up around their legs. A long couple of minutes later, Josh returned and breathed, “All clear.”
“We’re still missing that fourth guard.”
“No sign of him.” Josh pointed to a trail emerging from the cottage’s other side. “I followed that up to where it meets the cliff.”
Marc moved away from the stone wall and studied the village once more. The houses to the right of the central lane were built with narrow cuts between their rear wall and the cliff face. Those back areas were divided by crumbling stone fences, previously meant to hold kitchen gardens and animal pens. Marc could see they were overgrown with weeds.
Marc shifted back behind the wall and said, “Go.”
Josh signaled to his team, then melted into the mist and disappeared.
Marc drew Fareed and the Iranians in close. “You take up station here. Guard our way out.”
The Iranian jerked a nod. “Is good.”
Marc said to Hamid, “You know the target building?”
“Seventh house on right. Past the trail on left leading to the field and river.”
“I’m on point. You’re next. Who holds the rear?”
“Duboe.”