Lion of Babylon (11 page)

“It would be my honor.”

“No, no, it is we who are honored. You will come this evening, yes? Good. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Royce. I wish you success with this day. And with answering your questions. All of them.” She glanced at Leyla, then Sameh. “Your question is most important. A very great challenge. It is nice to hear a man willing to ask such questions, even when it makes him sad. Very nice.”

Chapter Seventeen

S
ameh was not surprised to find Major Hamid Lahm waiting for him in the church parking area. Not after all the commotion he had faced inside.

Lahm saluted him and spoke in English for Marc's sake. “Forgive me for disturbing you, here of all places. Miss Aisha told me where I would find you. We must hurry back to your office.”

Sameh saw Miriam and Bisan off in his car, then joined Marc and Leyla in the same Land Cruiser they had ridden the previous night. “The prison does not miss their vehicle?”

“The nation's gaze is upon us. We could ask for use of the president's palace and be made welcome,” Lahm replied. “You have heard?”

“My family mentioned something.” As had many of the parishioners.

“The radio and the newspapers and the television all carry the tale of the rescued children.” Major Lahm turned on the siren and the lights. “My briefcase is at your feet. A file inside contains the information you requested.”

The file was so bulky as to almost fill the case. Sameh opened the folder and lifted the first item. “But this is perfect!”

“Some of the children disliked the process,” Lahm said. “I never thought photographing forty-six children could be so taxing.”

The photographs were done with police precision. Clearly the children's distress had returned over the unfamiliar experience. Even so, the file contained three eight-by-ten photographs of each frightened face. Leyla leaned forward to look. “The poor little ones.”

“They are the fortunate ones,” Lahm said, jerking the steering wheel to clear a donkey cart. “If you do not believe me, ask the ones who await you.”

Sameh glanced back to where Marc sat behind Major Lahm, staring out the side window, his face creased. Sameh started to ask if everything was all right, but then decided such a question was unnecessary. Miriam had the habit of asking questions that probed deeply.

The American surprised him by saying, “Something about all this doesn't add up.”

Lahm glanced in the rearview mirror. “Explain, please?”

“Let's go back to the beginning.” His eyes remained focused on the view outside his side window. But Sameh doubted he saw anything at all. “A gardener applies for a job with this client of Sameh's. How long did he work there?”

Sameh was about to ask what difference that made when he noticed Lahm's expression changing, clamping down so it resembled the American's. Sameh tried to recall. “Hassan said it was a number of weeks.”

“Okay. So we've got a guy who comes in, does grunt work all day long. How did he get the job?”

Lahm reached forward to cut off the siren.

Sameh's voice sounded loud in the sudden quiet. “He was referred to Hassan by a neighbor.”

“Do you know the neighbor's name?”

“I spoke with the man. He owns a store where Hassan's wife shops. By all accounts, a good man.”

“We need to ask again. Harder. More directly.”

Lahm was nodding now. “I can do this.”

“What is the point?” Sameh objected. “The child has been returned.”

“No, no, this is good,” Lahm said. “The American is asking the right questions.”

Marc said, “Why would the kidnappers stick one of their men in with Hassan? We found forty-seven children. Did all of them get taken by someone in the household staff?”

“Unlikely,” Sameh said.

“Impossible,” Lahm put in.

“So we have one family who was targeted. We need to know why. We need to know what else was different about this kidnapping.”

Leyla spoke up then. “They never asked for ransom.”

All three men studied her, Lahm through the rearview mirror. Sameh said, “They often wait a while. The family grows more and more distraught. Hassan's family is very rich. They would have paid anything for Abdul's safe return.”

“Maybe that's it,” Marc said. “But what if they weren't after money at all?”

One of Lahm's men stepped into the street and waved them into a parking area. Sameh started to tell them they were still two blocks from his office, but it seemed a trifling issue in the face of what he was hearing. He asked, “You aren't suggesting there is a connection between the kidnapped children and the missing four?”

“Excuse, please,” Lahm said. “Which four are these?”

“Four adults,” Sameh said. “Three Americans. And a friend of Imam Jaffar.”

“This is public knowledge?”

“Exactly the opposite,” Sameh replied. “We are constantly hearing that people in power want this to go away. Some even claim it did not happen at all. Which is why Jaffar asked me to help.”

As the Land Cruiser slid to a stop, Lahm's policeman raced around and started to reach for the major's door. Lahm lifted a hand. The policeman took a step back, almost quivering with impatience. Lahm turned in his seat and asked Marc, “This is why you are here?”

“Yes. Because there are people inside the American power structure who are pretending the four were not made to disappear. My former boss does not believe these stories about them taking a vacation. I don't either. Alex Baird and the others were abducted. I need to know why, and how we can get them back.”

Lahm turned to again face forward. If he even saw his man's urgent signals from beyond the vehicle's manufactured coolness, he gave no sign. “It could be coincidence. The children and these four adults vanishing at the same time.”

Marc nodded. “Probably is.”

Sameh said, “There are people being made to disappear every day.”

“Even so,” Lahm said, “I for one distrust coincidences.”

“We need to look below the surface,” Marc said. “Just in case.”

Chapter Eighteen

A
s they proceeded down the street toward his office, Sameh remained gripped by the thought that Hassan's child might somehow be connected to the missing four adults. What was more, the American had come up with this possibility. The stranger. The one who had no experience in the Arab world. Seeing connections that were supposed to be invisible.

Sameh knew his people as only one could, who was both joined to them and yet forever at a distance. He was a Christian Arab, something the most conservative elements of his society sought to extinguish. He knew how much pride his people took in being forever misunderstood. They did not trust any outsiders who thought they knew the Arab heart. His fellow Arabs loved the hidden, the secret, the myriad intricate connections that made the past live alongside the present. It was impossible that Marc Royce could be identifying an unseen link such as this.

And yet the more Sameh pondered the mystery, the more certain he became that there was indeed a connection. How, he did not need to know. Not just then. His hunches had been proven right too often in the past. And the instant Marc Royce had spoken, Sameh had known the American somehow had pierced the veil.

Major Lahm interrupted his thoughts, speaking loud enough to be heard above the traffic. “We have managed to isolate the majority of the press. They did not like it, of course. Which has been the morning's greatest pleasure.”

“Forgive me, I was . . .” Sameh's voice trailed off.

The sidewalk ahead of them was a solid wall. People jammed the front gates leading to his office building and spilled into the street. Temporary barricades had been set up, forcing the traffic from four lanes down to three. A second barricade had been established just beyond the building's main gates. A forest of cameras and lights and shouting reporters competed with the traffic and the bleating horns and the police whistles. And the crowds.

Major Lahm and his men formed a shield and forged their way through. People filled the lobby, the stairs, the upstairs hall and his own waiting room. They waved photographs and grabbed at Sameh. Their faces were creased with fear and woe. Their eyes were red, though most had no more tears to shed.

Once Sameh was safely inside his office, Major Lahm and Marc took over crowd control. Lahm and his men worked the building's exterior and the street. Using Leyla as translator, Marc brought a semblance of order to the people inside. Occasionally, Sameh went to the office doorway and observed Marc's natural authority at work. The man did not raise his voice. He simply expelled a family who refused to do as he instructed. The rest reluctantly settled down and followed orders.

But even the diminished clamor remained a torture. Every voice carried the pain that shredded his nation's soul.

Sameh and Aisha taped the children's photographs to the walls of his office. The plan was to bring in one family at a time. Grant them the chance to examine the pictures. Name their missing child, describe any identifiable marks, and phone this through to someone at the hospital.

But the din outside Sameh's office drilled a massive hole in this plan.

Sameh had enough experience with distressed parents to know they wanted their child back more than anything in the world. So much, in fact, that some would be willing to lie. Claim a child that was not theirs, irrationally trying to fill the vacuum at the center of their universe.

Which was when Marc appeared in the doorway and announced, “I have to go.”

“You mean, now?”

“Duboe called. He says I have to meet him. Immediately.”

Through the open door, Sameh saw a riot in the making. Leyla moved up beside Marc. “But you are needed here.”

“Major Lahm will have to assign his men.”

“They won't be able to handle the situation as well. These people obey you.”

“I have to do this. Duboe made that absolutely clear. Lahm has a car waiting for me. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

When Marc slipped away, the din began to increase in volume and tension. Sameh sensed the place might erupt. Lahm's men were no match for an army of frantic parents. He was still struggling with this dilemma when the unbelievable happened.

The chaos beyond his door went silent.

He and Leyla and Aisha exchanged astonished glances. Leyla slipped away, then reappeared to announce, “The Imam Jaffar is here.”

———

Jaffar arrived with two young clerics in tow. Sameh checked the hall behind the trio, searching for the vizier. Jaffar said, “My father asked all his advisers to join him in Najaf. May I request a few moments of your time?”

“Please, you are welcome.”

“We do not wish to impose upon you.”

“How can a visit by the imam be an imposition? Besides which, I owe you an apology. I should have at least phoned to tell you what has happened.”

Jaffar waved his words aside. “Tell me how we can help.”

Matters were swiftly arranged. One of the dark-robed clerics accompanied Aisha down the long line of waiting families. Any family whose child had been missing for more than a year was separated out, their details taken, and sent home. Jaffar's authority cloaked the entire assembly in a quiet solemnity. Even so, Aisha and the cleric both aged decades listening to the stories, seeing the beloved and worn photos thrust into their hands, hearing the broken pleas.

Leyla and a second cleric began leading one family at a time into Sameh's office. Jaffar spent quite some time there, studying the photographs attached to the office walls. He did not speak as he lingered over the small frightened faces and the couples frantically scanning the walls.

Finally he motioned for Sameh to join him in the outer office. “So many tears.”

“And these are the fortunate ones.”

“Fortunate. Yes. Fortunate.” He searched the office. “Is the American here?”

“Alas, he was called away by his embassy.”

“Pity. Major Lahm says he was of great help. I had hoped to meet him.”

“He will be most disappointed to have missed you.”

“You trust him.”

Sameh nodded. “I do.”

“May I ask why?”

Sameh searched for one point that might summarize all he was coming to admire about Marc Royce. “His wife died three years ago. He sacrificed his profession to be with her. He carries the loss with him still. And yet it has not left him bitter. He cares deeply. He feels the pain of those who are suffering.”

Jaffar studied him for a long moment. “Major Lahm tells me this Royce is a friend of the missing American man.”

“Alex Baird. They worked together. They are part of the same church in America.”

“He too is a believer?”

For Sameh, the world seemed to stop. All the background noise vanished. The weeping couple in his office, Leyla's soft voice, the murmurs rising from behind his office door, the harsh sunlight bathing them through the window to his left. All gone. There was only room for the imam's intense gaze. The word hung in the air between them.
Believer
.

Jaffar must have read the shock in Sameh's face, for he added, “That is the term the Americans use, yes? I seek only to acknowledge what so many of my associates prefer to ignore. That their beliefs are important to them. As important as ours are to us.”

“Indeed.” Sameh sought a further response but could only come up with, “Marc Royce's faith is his own. But he strikes me as sincere. About everything.”

Jaffar turned his back to the office and asked softly, “Do you have news about the other matter?”

“Nothing direct. Only one possibility.” Sameh described the conversation that morning, about Hassan and the gardener.

When he was done, Jaffar frowned at the dust motes dancing in the sunlit air. “Hassan el-Thahie is known to me. He is Sunni and he had ties to Saddam. Which means many of my associates will carry their distrust of him to their graves.”

Sameh replied, “Hassan strikes me as a man seeking to rise above his past and carry our entire nation with him.”

For the second time that day, Jaffar surprised him. “I agree. Though I must ask that you do not share my opinion with anyone else.”

“Of course.”

“You say the American came up with this possible connection?”

“He and Major Lahm.”

“I would like to meet with this man.”

“I will make it happen. Without delay.”

“And I will make some inquiries of my own.” Jaffar lowered his voice further. “If you have anything to discuss about this matter, do not do so in writing or by phone. We should meet in person. And take great care. There are people in power who do not want us asking these questions.”

Sameh felt the old familiar chill seep into his bones. The imam's words brought back all the fears of the Saddam era. “Why should the authorities be so concerned about one more kidnapping?”

Jaffar offered Sameh his hand and a smile that did not touch his eyes. “That is one of the questions we should never speak aloud.”