by Davis Bunn
“Wait, please.” As Sameh passed on the news, he watched the imam’s normally composed features go taut with excitement.
“I must tell all this to my father. They will want to follow his speech with a public announcement.”
“Go, go.” When the imam hurried away, Sameh asked Marc, “Where are you?”
“Baghdad’s outskirts are just below us. We’re inbound for the same hospital where we took the kids. Duboe and Hamid have called ahead. Hold on a sec, Duboe wants to have a word.”
There was a momentary pause, then the CIA operative barked, “It’s been a solid day’s work, thanks to you and our man Marc.”
“You found missiles?”
“I wouldn’t know the first thing about that, being specifically ordered not to see anything that might impact international relations.” The man’s humor remained barely below the surface, like water one half step from full boil. “All I want to say is this. Anytime, anywhere. As much as you need, for as long as you want. You read me?”
Sameh found it necessary to wipe his face a second time. “Loudly and clearly, did I say that right?”
“Close enough. You’re about to learn what we mean when we say, We take care of our own. Duboe out.”
Sameh managed to return to his feet just as Jaffar clicked off his phone. The imam wore a look of grim triumph as he said, “Let us begin.”
– – All of Parliament was gathered in the public halls. Sameh heard the elder imam’s reedy voice emanating from televisions spaced about the entrance chamber. The images continued to follow the two men as they entered the long gallery flanking the assembly hall. People murmured and pointed and moved to greet them. For a few brief moments, attention turned from the imam’s speech.
The voice of Jaffar’s father became a backdrop to Sameh’s own procession. The Grand Imam spoke in the mode of a seasoned diplomat. His aged voice was well suited to the stone-lined chambers. He named no names. But his message resonated.
As did Sameh’s. He did not need to check his list. He knew the families, the faces to match the voices with whom he had spoken, as well as the names of the beloved who were missing. Sameh’s voice was distilled through his own years of tragic experience. He knew that such good news required the same gentle composure as the tragic.
Sameh reported to the first leader he spotted, then held the man as he wept. He recalled Marc standing in the blazing sun outside a hospital entrance, kicking a concrete wall to stop himself from weeping. Marc had witnessed what it meant to give a family good news, then be forced to accept that he could not save every missing child or heal every gaping wound.
Jaffar joined him then, drawn by the sight of Sameh breaking away and moving toward the next frantic member of the Alliance. Jaffar took hold of Sameh’s arm, offering strength through his grip and his presence. The entire hall watched them now, as the Alliance leader they had just left shouted his joy to the lofty ceilings.
The growing tumult accompanied them across the main gallery and into the adjoining chambers. The louder the acclaim grew, the more inward Sameh’s focus became. As though he was being drawn to a new level of understanding by the very act of playing messenger. Jaffar noticed the change as well, for as they passed yet another television, he said, “Perhaps we should stop and hear this segment together.”
Space was made for them in the encircling throng, just in time for them to hear the imam say, “How is it that a neighbor can call itself our friend with one breath, then plan acts of subversion and destruction with the next? How is it that an ally can claim the right to undermine the will of the Iraqi people, and destroy our democracy while still in its fragile infancy?”
A hand reached over to touch Sameh’s shoulder. Sameh recognized another stricken Alliance leader. But this time, Jaffar interrupted the exchange before it could begin. “One moment, please. The ambassador needs to hear this.”
It took Sameh quite some time to realize that Jaffar was referring to him.
The imam went on, “Such uncertain times need new strength, a young mind, a fresh vision. As of today, I am retiring. I hereby hand over all official duties to my son and heir…”
The imam’s words were drowned out by a rising tumult that spilled out of the gallery and through the building.
Sameh allowed himself to be separated from the imam. He continued his role as messenger, passing from one Alliance member to the next. Over and over he heard himself referred to by the title bestowed upon him by Jaffar.
Mr. Ambassador.
Chapter Fifty
T he Christian cemetery was located beyond Baghdad’s western perimeter, quite literally at the end of the road. Just beyond the cemetery entrance, the lane simply stopped. Marc rose from the car and stared out over endless yellow miles of nothing. In the distance, dusty hills appeared to melt in the shimmering heat. Far to Marc’s left ran the main highway to Jordan, a straight black ribbon that bisected a world of gritty hues. A few bleating sheep only heightened the sense of desolation.
Yet even here, they were not alone. Half a dozen old women sat on stone benches to either side of the cemetery gates. At their feet were buckets of water holding limp bunches of flowers.
Today marked the anniversary of Leyla’s husband’s death. They had come straight from the hospital to the cemetery. Alex was resting comfortably alongside Taufiq. Hannah Brimsley and Claire Reeves were as weak and undernourished as Alex, but all four were expected to make a full recovery. None of them had eaten since the children had been shoved into the building with them. They had passed on their rations to the little ones.
Most of the children and adults had been reunited, and only two required further observation. Major Hamid Lahm had been awake, his shoulder heavily bandaged. He was being watched over by his wife, a lovely woman who bore the burdens of being a policeman’s wife with stoic calm. Farewells with Hamid had gone much easier than Marc had expected, a quiet exchange between friends with no intention of ever losing touch.
The bodyguards assigned to Leyla and Bisan now stood near the police Land Cruiser that had accompanied them. The guards and officers remained far enough away not to intrude upon the moment. Marc watched as Leyla gave Bisan some money. The child went to each old woman in turn, offering sweet words and wrinkled bills, accepting a bouquet from each. Marc glanced back to where Miriam sat in the front seat, the door open to admit a feeble breeze. They shared a smile. Bisan had the ability to draw joy from the deepest shadows.
“She has done this every year since she learned to talk,” Leyla said. “When I asked her why she did this, she said her father would want her to help every woman.”
“How she can know this?” Miriam said. “She was not yet two when her father was taken from us.”
Marc said, “She knows because he still lives in all of you.”
Leyla turned away from them and wiped her eyes.
Marc walked over and asked Bisan, “May I help you hold them?”
“Thank you.” Solemnly, Bisan passed over three of the bouquets. The front of her formal robe was stained with dripping water.
At the sound of his English, three of the women turned to stare at him. Their dark eyes were filled with desert mystery. All of them were veiled. Even so, Marc saw how one had tribal tattoos about her eyes and down the backs of both hands. Marc tried hard not to stare as he followed Bisan.
Together they carried the flowers into the cemetery. A truly ancient gnome, all leathery skin and gnarled limbs, tottered from the gatehouse. Leyla greeted him and offered a few coins. His voice creaked like a rusty gate as he thanked her.
They halted before a tomb whose top was domed like their Baghdad church. Marc stood back while Bisan and Miriam and Leyla arranged the flowers in the stone vases imbedded into the vault doors and at each corner. Bisan slipped an envelope from her purse, then looked hesitantly at her mother. Leyla murmured a sorrowful encouragement. Bisan set it beside the central vase.
“She received top marks in history,” Miriam said.
“It was my husband’s favorite subject,” Leyla explained.
Marc had no idea how to respond, so he remained silent.
Bisan moved back to where she could slip her hand into her mother’s. They stood like that for a time, burdened by more than the baking sun. Then the ladies crossed themselves and together they left the cemetery.
Leyla exchanged farewells with the gatekeeper, then said to Marc, “Ten generations of our family are here.”
“Ten of mine, perhaps more of Sameh’s,” Miriam corrected.
“But next to the life and future of my child, they are nothing. They are dust.”
Marc still said nothing. There was no way to express what he was thinking.
They returned to the car, but did not enter it. Bisan asked him, “You are certain you must leave today?”
“In three hours.”
“But I want you to stay.”
“I know,” Marc replied. “And your friendship is a gift.”
Bisan’s lips trembled. “But why do you have to leave now?”
“Bisan,” her mother gently chided.
Marc looked from mother to aunt to daughter. He sorted through a variety of responses. Ambassador Walton had ordered him back to attend an urgent White House briefing on the new Alliance regime. Senior Washington officials wanted his perspective on several related issues. Alex Baird was still too weak to travel home on his own.
And it looked like Marc was up for a new appointment in intelligence.
Marc touched the child’s cheek and said quietly, “It’s time.”
They stood like that, joined by all that had come before. Finally, Leyla announced, “Sameh has been asked to serve with the Alliance and the new government.”
Miriam said, “There are many factions within the new regime. Many voices. All want something. Everyone arguing for more power and higher positions.”
“Everyone but Uncle,” Bisan said, and wiped her cheeks.
“They are calling him a hero,” Leyla said, brushing at her own eyes. “A bringer of peace.”
Marc heard the hidden message beneath the news and felt his heart quake at the prospect. “Will you be coming to the United States?”
Leyla smiled at him, her eyes dark gemstones washed by a river of tears. “That is in God’s hands.”
Chapter Fifty-One
A s Marc climbed the stairs leading to Parliament’s main entrance, Sameh passed through the central doors and started down toward him. “How was it at the cemetery?”
“Very moving,” Marc replied. “And very hot.”
“Leyla has never before invited anyone but Bisan to join her there. I, well…” Sameh paused, then waved the words aside.
“I understand.”
“It is not my place.”
“It is absolutely your place. They are your family.”
Sameh studied him a long moment, then said, “And you are my friend.”
Marc found it necessary to study the granite at his feet. “I wish I knew how to tell you what that means.”
“There is no need.” Sameh glanced down the sun-drenched stairs to the waiting vehicles. Josh Reames and Barry Duboe stood by a trio of embassy transports with tinted windows, conversing with the ease of old friends. They were going to accompany Marc to the hospital to collect the other Americans, then take them to the airport. Sameh said, “I wanted to see you off. But today’s meetings are very crucial.”
“Leyla explained. Do not give it another thought.”
“I am to receive a special appointment. That is, if the Alliance does indeed manage to form a coalition.”
“They couldn’t ask for a better man on their side,” Marc said.
“I have spent my entire life avoiding the center stage,” Sameh said, shaking his head.
“Alex told me once that faith is all about letting God lead us beyond our comfort zone.”
“Your friend is very wise indeed.” Sameh held out the small parcel he carried. “This is a gift from Jaffar.”
Marc’s fingers felt numb as he struggled with the string. He folded the paper back to reveal a brass shield about the size of his hand. Upon it was emblazoned a raging lion, raised up on its hind feet and roaring at the unseen.
Sameh said, “This is the ancient symbol for a lugal, a hero intended to lead our people from peril.”
The polished shield caught the sunlight and momentarily blinded him. “I don’t know what to say.”
Sameh settled his arm upon Marc’s shoulder. “Just that you will not be long in returning. Those are the only words I wish to hear.”
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