Lion of Babylon (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

M
arc insisted on taking a taxi back to his hotel. It was late, he said, and everyone was tired. To Sameh's surprise, Miriam agreed. There was a regular taxi service owned by a neighbor, and they entrusted even Bisan to his drivers. They made arrangements to meet Marc for another morning prayer service at the church. They said their farewells, finished cleaning up after dinner, and went to bed.

Sameh lay next to his wife, listening to Bisan softly sing in the next room. When the child had been five, she announced she would like to sing her mother to sleep. Even though Bisan was the one in bed and her mother was seated beside her. The child had seen how her mother needed comforting. Bisan still continued the practice, often falling asleep in the middle of a song. Tonight, before Sameh drifted away, he dreaded the night when Bisan was not there to heal his heart with her song.

After the service the next morning, Sameh took them all to breakfast at a nearby shopping center. It had been bombed and rebuilt and recently reopened. The restaurant included a shaded veranda on the mall's top floor. They looked down on rooftops and minarets and the green fronds of palm trees. A faint scent of eucalyptus wafted upward through the traffic fumes. A wall fountain played the music of water. The chatter from surrounding tables was subdued and the laughter comforting. There were such havens popping up all over Baghdad, places where it was possible to momentarily forget the danger and the din waiting beyond the barriers.

They were supposed to be at the hospital in two hours, to begin the formal process of rejoining the families with their children. Sameh had intended to use the breakfast to describe for Marc what had happened with Hassan the previous day. See if this uncommonly perceptive American could shed light on the confusion and the unwoven strands.

But before Sameh could start, Marc said, “Every day I spend here reveals something new, a tiny glimmer of a secret. I wake up filled with things I urgently want to understand better.”

Leyla asked, “Such as?”

“Well, like the difference between Shia and Sunni.”

Leyla and Miriam glanced at Sameh, who replied, “It is easiest to understand if you look at parallels within the West's Christian communities. You have the Protestants, which are segmenting more every day. Then there are the Pentecostals and the free church movements. And you have the Catholics. And the Orthodox. And on and on. Now, consider how it would be if I, an Arab, asked you to explain the differences.”

“I probably could explain some distinctions, but certainly not fully.”

“Many lives have been lost in the conflict between the Christian divisions. Many wars fought. Yet now there is mostly peace. Of course we still argue among ourselves. But nowadays these are mostly polite arguments. There is little bloodshed. And here lies a very real difference between the Western mind and the Arab. For you in the West, the past is over. Finished. Mostly forgotten. For the Arab, it is
now
. The past does not merely live. The past
defines
the present.”

Leyla added, “For many Arabs, the Crusades did not end centuries ago. They are still with us today. This very moment. It is the reason many Arabs will never fully trust a Westerner.”

Bisan's voice picked up the conversation with a cadence that suggested she was reciting a lesson from school. “The division between Shia and Sunni dates to the death of the prophet Mohammed, and the argument over who was to lead the new Muslim nation. Sunnis insisted that the leader should be elected. But Shias argued that the leaders should come from Mohammed's own family. The Sunnis won, but Shias insisted on following Mohammed's cousin and son-in-law, a man named Ali. Ever since then, Shias have refused to recognize the authority of elected Muslim leaders. They follow a line of imams who trace their lineage back to Mohammed.”

“Like Jaffar,” Leyla said.

Sameh went on, “This quarrel is not something from the past. It is here and it is now. The conflict is a dreadful legacy that still tears at the heart of Islam. Conservative Sunni clerics describe the Shias as outcasts. Evil. People to be destroyed at will. The Shias remain persecuted minorities in Saudi Arabia, the Gulf states, Yemen, and Syria.”

“Enough,” Miriam said, waving her hand toward the view. “This is no discussion for such a lovely morning.”

“I apologize for my question,” Marc said.

“There is no need,” Leyla said.

“You are an extremely gracious people. Particularly with strangers. Your hospitality is incredible. But . . .” Marc glanced at Miriam, the elder woman. “I don't want to offend.”

“We are friends. You are learning. Speak your heart.”

“Beneath this face your people show the outer world, I feel as though I'm catching hints of emotions as powerful as lava,” Marc said. “The force of love, of family, of hate, of vengeance, of respect for generations. The way you care for your children. The importance of your clan, your family. The power of faith. It seems these passions are so powerful, you have no choice but to hold them in check.”

“Remarkable,” Miriam murmured. “I am impressed.”

Bisan ate her shredded croissant with her fingers, getting butter and jam on her face. She endured her mother's napkin for a time, then pushed Leyla's hand away and asked Sameh, “Are we going to accept the green cards?”

Marc nodded slowly as though he had been waiting for the question. And for this woman-child to address the issue. “We need to decide that,” he said. “Before five this afternoon, somebody has to contact the ambassador.”

Miriam asked, “What would you do?”

Sameh had no choice but to smile. For his wife to ask this man's advice about her family's future meant only one thing. The American was a stranger no more.

Marc said, “If you would like me to, I could make the call. You haven't told me your decision, so you or I are not caught in a lie. If I can, I will draw this out for a few more days. Things are moving fast. We'll see what we can find. And we must hurry. We have to. The longer this takes, the less chance we have of finding the missing four alive.”

Sameh watched a sparrow flitter over the railing and come to rest at the fountain's edge. It drank and flew so close to him, he could hear the drumbeat of wings. He wondered if this was what it felt to be an expatriate. An outcast from his beloved homeland. Where life was no longer his to control.

But his wife was saying, “It is a good plan. Don't you agree, husband?”

Sameh wanted to speak. There was so much to be said. Yet all he could think of was the mournful note playing in his heart, of coming loss and upheaval.

Leyla must have read his response upon his features, for she said, “Thank you for your suggestion, Marc. We have a few more hours to decide. We will tell you then.”

———

Miriam left with the car to take Bisan to school. Sameh flagged a taxi and asked for the three of them to be dropped near the hospital. The only vehicles permitted inside the hospital complex were ambulances and police cars and troop carriers. Like all Baghdad hospitals, the buildings were hidden behind blast walls eighteen feet high.

Major Lahm emerged through the security gate and offered them a solemn greeting. As they approached the security guards, Major Lahm settled a hand on Marc's shoulder, showing the soldiers that Marc was indeed both with him and welcome. Sameh wondered if the American had any idea how rare this was, a foreigner accepted in Iraq as one of their own.

Major Lahm led them around the perimeter, which meant they did not use the main entrance. A Baghdad hospital's main lobby area often served as overflow for the emergency department. The bomb blast that had shattered the previous evening could well have turned the hospital lobby into a nightmarish place. Major Lahm led them down the shaded walk between the main building and the blast walls, and then through the doors leading into the rear building, the one housing the children's wing.

This was bad enough, filled as it was with families waiting to collect their children. An official of the Justice Ministry and six of Lahm's men struggled to keep the emotions from boiling over.

Leyla and Sameh began working with the parents, serving as spokespeople with the justice official. A senior nurse guarded the doors leading into the children's wing. One by one the forms were filled out, reviewed, and the children brought forth.

When the first child emerged, the entire lobby area froze. All the parents, the nurses, police, doctors, Marc, Sameh, and Leyla. All lost the ability to draw breath, the reunion was that wrenching. The mother screamed, the father wept, the child wailed. They clung to one another in an embrace almost as tragic as the event itself.

Sameh endured a half dozen more reunions, then noticed Marc had disappeared.

Sameh walked over to where Major Lahm ensured that waiting families held themselves in some decorum. After Lahm promised a tearful mother the little ones would all be processed that day, Sameh asked in a low voice, “Have you seen Marc?”

Lahm scanned the room, then asked one of his men standing duty by the exit. The guard pointed them outside.

They found Marc leaning against the blast wall, staring at the dusty ground by his feet. Sameh said, “Something is wrong, my friend?”

Marc did not reply. His foot dug a trench in the sand.

Major Lahm stepped over next to the American. He stood there for a time, then said, “You hear them, yes?”

Marc continued marking a trough with one shoe.

Lahm said, “The children. Those who have not come home.”

Marc slowly lifted his head.

Lahm said, “And their parents. The families with missing little ones. You hear them too.” Hamid Lahm reached over and prodded Marc's chest with one finger. “In here. Where it matters.”

Marc might have nodded. Or it could have been a shudder.

Lahm turned to Sameh and asked in Arabic for the translation of a certain word.

Sameh had to swallow hard before he could reply, “Lament.”

“Yes, is so. My friend, you hear my city's silent lament.”

Sameh swallowed a second time. “It wakes me up at night.”

“Of course, yes. Sameh el-Jacobi is a good man. How can this good man not hear?” Lahm stared straight at Marc. “Just as you. Another good man.”

They remained there, enclosed in the heat radiating from the concrete, until Marc's phone rang. He checked the readout, cleared his throat, and said, “This is Royce.”

He listened for a moment, then said, “I am going to bring a friend.” Another moment passed. “I was not asking permission.”

He shut the phone. To Sameh's surprise, Marc spoke to the policeman and not him. “There's something heavy about to go down.”

Lahm's forehead creased. “I do not understand.”

“A sortie by U.S. Special Forces. They have word of a possible attack. They have invited me along. I think you should come, Hamid. Sameh, can you handle the families?”

“Of course. But why—?”

“The officer in charge, Josh Reames, is engaged to Hannah Brimsley, the missing missionary.”

“You know this how?”

“He told me. He wants to help us. But he needs to bring his men on board.”

Lahm nodded. “I know this type of man.”

Marc explained to Sameh, “It's one thing for his guys to include Hamid's team because they're loyal to Josh. It's another if they see us in action.”

“And this is important so they know us when we go after the missing four adults.” Hamid gave Marc a soldier's grin, a slight tightening of adrenaline-taut features. “We will also be involved in that, yes?”

Marc replied, “I wouldn't have it any other way.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

T
heir destination was El Shorjeh, Baghdad's main shopping district. Lahm explained this in his slow, accented English. Marc assumed the major had developed his careful cadence while questioning criminals.

Major Lahm had selected three of his men to accompany them. The others had not liked being left at the hospital. Clearly they sensed the four police officers and Marc were going on a sortie that might involve action. Sameh had translated Lahm's words to Marc, which turned out to be a calm reminder that if Lahm rose up the ladder, he took his whole team with him. Marc wished he'd known more officers like this man.

Lahm made a stop at one of the multitude of small shops lining the street, this one selling secondhand clothing. He spoke with his men, and they swiftly selected what passed for lower middle-class Arab garb, from unironed cotton trousers to scuffed street shoes to shapeless jackets and collarless shirts. They slipped into curtained alcoves at the back of the store and changed out of their navy blue police uniforms. They bought a head-kerchief and coiled ropelike band for Marc, then argued when he tried to pay.

The traffic was the worst Marc had yet seen. Major Lahm explained that they approached the celebration marking the end of Ramadan. People shopped and visited and prepared to cast the burden of the fast aside.

Marc related everything that Josh Reames had told him, which was very little. They were going on a stakeout, working on a tip. Josh had warned it might be nothing. Then again, their source had been right before. If so, Josh had promised, they'd be in for a very hot afternoon. When Marc repeated this, Lahm replied calmly, “Baghdad has many of these.”

Hamid Lahm directed his driver to pull through a checkpoint armed by soldiers in khaki. He flashed a badge, spoke briefly, then was saluted and waved through. As they exited the Land Cruiser, Hamid explained this had formerly been a U.S. military base and was now used for the training and placement of city police. They left the vehicle and passed back through the checkpoint to join the flow of pedestrians.

The crowd was boisterous and good-natured. They found Josh Reames seated with two other men outside a market café. The sidewalk was raised four feet above street level and shaded by an ancient brick overhang. The view was out over the market stalls and the street to a dusty square. The police station stood to the left of the square's opposite side. Across the four-lane road from the station was a large mosque and teaching center, all hidden behind another ancient wall.

Battered metal tables spilled out of shops and around the building's corner. Josh's table was positioned so he and his men could disappear down an alley if necessary. A pair of stone pillars shadowed them. Televisions were bolted to the pillars, showing a blurry news show. The air was thick with smoke from hookahs and from a charcoal brazier just inside the shop's doorway. People slipped into the shop and ate, their Ramadan offense hidden from accusing eyes. Then they returned to the outdoor tables and smoked. The shop's interior was packed.

The din was fierce. Drivers trapped in the street circling the square leaned on their horns. The stallholders described their merchandise in a never-ending chant. Many stalls had boom boxes lashed to their front poles, blaring Arabic music through broken speakers. Donkeys brayed and children screamed. Shoppers argued over price and quality.

Josh and his men were relaxed in the manner of hunting cats. They watched Hamid and Marc pull over a pair of chairs and sit down. Josh nodded toward Major Lahm. “Explain to me why this could possibly be a good idea.”

“Everybody I'm talking to tells me the U.S. presence is winding down,” Marc said. “The military is handing over control to the locals.” He gestured to Hamid. “This man, Hamid Lahm, is one local you can trust.”

“You're sure of that.”

“Yes,” Marc replied. “I am.”

“I'm only asking, see, on account of how you're placing my life and the lives of my team in their hands.”

“I trusted him,” Marc replied. “And I'm glad I did.”

“The thing with the kids?”

Marc pointed a second time at Hamid. “The major and his men kept the rescue from going south.”

Josh looked at Hamid for the first time. “So what are you, some kind of Iraqi SWAT?”

Hamid Lahm shook his head. “We are prison guards.”

Behind the bill of his dusty cap and the black sunglasses, Josh Reames presented a blank stone mask. “I heard about some super-hot police action types who got sent out to a prison in the middle of nowhere. Been cooling their heels ever since.”

Hamid Lahm just sat and stared at the American.

Josh asked, “What were you and your men, you know, back in the bad old days?”

Hamid Lahm replied, “I forget.”

Josh smiled. A quick flash, there and gone. “That good, huh.”

The man shrugged. “Maybe.”

“What's your name again?”

“Hamid. Hamid Lahm.”

“Okay, Hamid, how many guns did you bring?”

“Myself and three more. Good men.”

“We've got the three here, and another playing spotter from the roof overhead. And look over there. The green Proton with the dent in the driver's door.”

“Yes. With two men. Can they fight?”

“They better, they want to stay on my team.”

Hamid asked, “What is happening?”

“Maybe nothing. But we got word from friends on the street that a deal could be going down. You understand that word, Hamid,
deal
?”

“Trouble, yes. I understand.” Hamid turned to scout the terrain beyond the shadows. “You have no Iraqi allies of your own?”

Josh lost his trace of humor. “Our allies are Sunni. The word is, today's target is this market, which is all Shia, like the mosque you see over there. What stripe of cat are you, Hamid? I don't mean offense, but this is too close to becoming a free-fire zone for any messing around.”

“I am Shia.” Hamid used his chin to point to his man loitering by the café's farthest pillar. “My second-in-command, Yussuf, he is Sunni. The man over there eating apricots, he is Christian. The one beside him is Shia like me. All my men are two things, Josh Reames. They are Iraqi first. And two, they are very good at their job. The best.”

All three of the American soldiers were watching Hamid now. Reames said to the man seated at his right, “Go get our new buddies a couple of Cokes. You'd like a Coke, wouldn't you, Royce? They serve them warm here.”

But as Josh's man rose from his seat, the other one said, “Heads up.”

Above the blaring horns and the music and the shouts and the din, Marc heard something new. A parade appeared around a corner and immediately dominated the market. The procession entered the stalled traffic and split like streams flowing into a river delta. Men and women alike wore knee-length black shirts and black head-kerchiefs or headbands adorned with Arabic script. Hundreds and hundreds of them, most banging tambourines or blowing reed instruments. They poured around the stalls and entered the traffic. When the group stepped into the road, the traffic horns stopped blowing.

Hamid raised his voice to be heard above the clamor. “Some Shia say twenty-eight days of Ramadan fasting not enough. So they add another week. They dance to the mosque for the prayers. They don't like these celebrations and buying and happiness. They say this is insult to final day of fasting.”

Josh leaned across the table. “Our source tells us the attack is against these guys. We've been authorized to use all force necessary.”

“I must warn my men.” Hamid rose from his chair. “This could be very bad indeed.”