Lion of Babylon (22 page)

The Grand Imam was followed by Major Hamid Lahm and another old man. This second elder glared at Marc. He needed no introduction to know this was the vizier.

The hospital director nervously turned and spoke to the Grand Imam. His only response was a slight wave of his cane. The director bowed himself from the room.

Jaffar gently drew his father forward to where Marc stood. Sameh and his family had all moved to the opposite corner of the room, near the window. The imam had to twist his head slightly in order to meet Marc's gaze. His eyes were rheumy but brilliant in their intensity. His voice reminded Marc of tree branches creaking in the wind.

There followed a brief silence. Then Bisan spoke softly with Sameh. He hesitated, then nodded. Bisan walked over to stand between Marc and the imam. She said softly, “The imam thanks you for the life of his son.”

“Please tell him it was an honor to be of service to Jaffar and his family.”

When the young girl had translated, the imam patted Bisan's cheek and smiled. He spoke to her. Bisan responded. The imam nodded and spoke again. The two of them conversed for a moment. The imam cast Marc a sharp glance, one laden with meaning.

“The imam,” Bisan told him, “he says I am a gift to my family. He asks of my parents. I say, this is my mother. My father I lost to Saddam. The imam says he is sorry that a child has faced such loss. He says we are a people joined by suffering.”

Marc met the old man's gaze and remained still, watchful.

“The imam, he says he hears your name everywhere. He hears you are a friend to the Iraqi people. A man who can be trusted. The imam asks if what he hears is true.”

Marc did not know what to say. His silence proved to be the best possible response. Major Hamid Lahm said something. When he was finished, Sameh followed with something longer. Then Miriam. And Leyla. And Jaffar. And finally Bisan. All the while, the imam's gaze rested upon Marc.

When the room was silent once more, the imam spoke at length. Sameh's quick intake of breath turned all eyes toward him. Major Lahm locked gazes with Sameh and gave a terse nod. Miriam and Leyla murmured together in the manner of women sharing deep sorrow.

Sameh stepped forward. “Bisan, let me be the one to speak these words.”

Something in Sameh's gaze silenced the girl. She gripped Marc's hand and took a single step toward the window. The imam watched this and smiled. Marc had the impression that very little escaped this man's attention.

Sameh told Marc, “We have just learned that last night seven children were kidnapped. And a newly wedded woman. And an aged grandmother who is ill with diabetes. All taken in the same hour that we were attacked at our home.”

The imam seemed impatient now, speaking again before Sameh finished translating. Sameh's voice quickened to keep up. “The three attackers at our home will survive their wounds, as will Jaffar's bodyguards. It is the one bright spot from this night of sorrow and loss, that no one was killed. The imam says the attackers have been questioned by Major Lahm. He has confirmed they are Iranians.”

The vizier sucked in a quick breath and opened his mouth. The imam glanced over. The one look was enough to silence him.

“The imam says that all the families who suffered losses this night are involved with the new coalition. The imam finds this very interesting. He finds it especially interesting that one of the attackers at our home has also confirmed that he is a member of the Revolutionary Guard.”

This time, the vizier would not be silenced by a look. He spat out words that were ignored by everyone. Most especially the imam, who continued to address Marc.

“The Revolutionary Guard is the direct arm of the ayatollahs. The religious elite of Iran claim to be the strongest supporters of the imam. They also claim to be Iraq's closest friends. They say over and over how they only have Iraq's best interests at hand. How can this be, the imam wonders, when the Guard is discovered to be involved in such atrocities? The imam has no choice but to question Iran's motives. This is very hard for him, because he studied there and maintains close contact with scholars in that country. The imam says he still dreams in Farsi. He feels his heart will always be bound by both of these countries, the nation that is his by birth, and the nation that harbored him and his family while Saddam drenched his home country in the blood of innocents.”

The vizier's voice had risen to fill the room with an incessant whine, like a dentist's drill. But the imam continued to hold Marc with his gaze. Sameh lifted his voice above the vizier's. “The imam says all the people affected by last night's tragedy have today resigned from the new political party known as the Alliance. These nine politicians will only say that they have reconsidered their position and decided that the religious conservatives should form the new government. The imam says he cannot help but question this, even though he was instrumental in founding the conservative party. How can this be right, he asks himself, if the conservatives win because of pressure from Iran?”

Then the imam said something that cut off the vizier's complaints abruptly. The man's jaw hung open as he gaped at the imam.

Sameh translated, “The imam says he has nothing with which to repay you except a gift of trust. The imam has decided that the day after tomorrow, he will address the people of Iraq. He will say that he was wrong to distrust the Americans. He will say that he fears the Iranian government has not been truthful with him or with the people of Iraq. He will say that although the nation has suffered greatly during the war and the occupation that followed, the Americans have done their best to restore order and democracy. He will urge the newly elected officials to set aside their differences and form a government of national unity.”

The imam started to turn away, then smiled at Bisan and motioned her forward. The old man leaned down and spoke briefly into her ear. He patted her cheek, nodded to Marc, and motioned for his son to usher him from the room.

Major Lahm remained in the doorway, head turned toward the imam's slow retreat down the hallway. He stepped into the room. “What the imam says is true. Nine of the top Alliance officials have just announced their resignations.”

Marc said, “Follow Jaffar. See if you can have a private word with him. We need access to Taufiq's closest friends.”

Lahm squinted. “This is urgent?”

“I think they just might hold the key,” Marc said.

When Lahm had departed, Sameh asked Bisan, “What did the imam say to you?”

Bisan looked at Marc. “The imam says, bring proof and do so swiftly, or we will both be silenced.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

J
affar came through for them, and did so in remarkable speed. Marc was still being checked out of the hospital when the imam called Sameh to say Taufiq's two closest friends would meet them at the el-Waziri offices.

Hamid Lahm's Land Cruiser was followed by a Hyundai containing Sameh's two bodyguards. Sameh lamented the fact that he no longer could travel unseen from one place to another. His every move was mapped out. His home was under constant guard. Bisan had been driven from the hospital to school by the guards assigned to the women. Sameh wished he could believe their safety was worth this loss of independence. All the signals now seemed to point toward a gradual and steady push to the exit with those green cards.

Other than the bandage emerging from one arm of his short-sleeved shirt, Marc looked no worse for wear. In fact, he seemed the same as always. Calm, alert, watchful, silent. Sameh found it vaguely unsettling that his friend could endure the trauma of the past few days and still appear so, well, Arab.

Hamid Lahm spent the first part of their journey on the phone. As they entered Atifiya, the city's oldest section, he shut his phone and announced, “One of the Palestinian kidnappers has become very talkative. He claims two of the children, Hassan el-Thahie's and the Tikriti child, were stolen to order. They held on to the children because they were negotiating for a higher price.”

“It happens,” Sameh confirmed to Marc, and rubbed the sore point over his heart.

Marc asked, “Could he identify the buyers?”

“He claims never to have seen them, and he heard their voices only once on the phone. But he is certain they were Iranians.”

The el-Waziri company headquarters occupied what had undoubtedly been a minister's palace. The walled enclave was lined in brick as pale as that of Babylon, which lay some seventy miles to the south. The inner compound had a graveled circular drive, fronting three buildings that had once housed formal meeting halls, stables, and the family residence. The courtyard was patrolled by vigilant guards. The missing young man's father, Farouk el-Waziri, stood in the forecourt speaking with the Imam Jaffar and the vizier. The older cleric scowled in sullen rage at their arrival.

Marc asked, “What is the vizier doing here? ”

“He insists, he comes,” Hamid Lahm replied.

Sameh explained, “Jaffar's father is old and weak. The vizier represents the strongest and most conservative of his followers. These days, the elderly imam's orders go only so far.”

The courtyard's atmosphere was one of respectful tension. Only the vizier displayed any emotion. That flame of hatred blazed as he watched Sameh and Marc emerge from the Land Cruiser.

Jaffar showed a lifetime's experience at not acknowledging his father's emissary. He draped the end of his robe about his arm before offering Sameh his hand. “Sayyid Sameh, an honor, as always. And our friend Marc. Welcome, welcome.”

In a few words, Sameh tried to convey what a rare tribute the imam had just paid Marc, publicly declaring him a friend. In response, Marc took the imam's hand, met his gaze, and replied, “I am here to serve.”

The imam liked that enough to smile. “Ask our friend, how is his arm?”

Marc flexed it over his head. “Fine. It was nothing.”

“This is indeed good news.” Jaffar extended a hand toward the waiting elder. “Allow me to introduce my father's friend and ally, Farouk el-Waziri.”

Marc shook the older man's hand. “An honor, sir. I do wish we were meeting for another reason.”

The man looked unwell to Sameh, worse even than two days earlier. A liver spot on his cheek was the only point that held any color. His lips compressed in a grimace, the closest the man could come to a smile. “So do I also wish.”

Jaffar then turned to the vizier. “You will please report back to my father that the proper traditions have been observed.”

The vizier stiffened. “I wish to remain.”

“But you will not.”

Sameh observed the exchange as though from a great distance, removed from the crackling tension. The vizier hissed, “This is an
outrage
.”

“On the contrary, it is necessary. My friends seek an atmosphere of trust and openness.”

“I
demand
to remain!”

“The only demand here is that we do all we can to restore Taufiq and the others to their families.”

“Your father will hear of this!”

“My father already knows.” Jaffar dismissed his father's vizier with a flutter of his robe as he turned to the others. “Shall we proceed?”

Farouk el-Waziri waited until they all had climbed the front steps. “What has just happened?”

Jaffar smiled at the sound of slamming doors and tires spewing gravel. “Something thirty years in the making.”

———

The two young men waiting in the office were clearly terrified. Sameh could well understand their fear. No doubt they were present because their parents had heard first from Farouk el-Waziri and then from the imam himself. They came because they had been ordered to do so. And now they found themselves in the company of a powerful imam, a police major, a lawyer, and a man introduced as an American agent. Of course they were frightened.

One young man was tall and reed-thin. His eyes shifted fearfully from one face to the next. The other was stocky in build and trying hard to hide his tremors. Jaffar led the conversation, quietly asking about their families as tea was served. Farouk el-Waziri introduced his own family. His wife and mother shared a look of bone-deep distress as they struggled to thank the imam for his concern. He responded with solemn dignity, wishing them peace and expressing hope that they would find a positive resolution to this tragedy. Sameh saw how the women desperately wanted to believe him, yet no doubt were finding it more difficult with every sleepless night.

They were ushered into the el-Waziri conference room, a high-ceilinged chamber that overlooked the main compound. The air was gratefully cool. Sameh felt the generator's vibrations through his shoes. At Jaffar's request, Farouk el-Waziri asked his family and staff to leave the room. Jaffar also directed his bodyguards to depart. Then it was just the seven of them. Jaffar, the two young men, Farouk el-Waziri, Hamid Lahm, Marc, and Sameh.

Sameh found himself holding his breath, wondering how things might unfold. Wondering if answers to the entangled mysteries might indeed be found in this room.

Jaffar turned to Marc, “All Iraq is in your debt.”

The imam showed an expert's ability to time his words so they kept pace with Sameh's translations. And for his part, Sameh knew to pitch his voice for Marc's ears so as not to disrupt the conversation any further than necessary.

Jaffar went on, “You have helped restore forty-seven children to their families. You have protected a market and a mosque full of innocents from destruction. You have kept the celebration marking the end of Ramadan from being stained by the slaughter of innocents. You have saved my friend Sameh el-Jacobi and his family. You have saved my own life. My father, the Grand Imam, declares our indebtedness to you.”

The imam lifted his arms from the chair so his robe fell like wings. “All you need to do is express your wish. If it is within my ability to grant it, it is yours.”

Marc was ready. “I need these men to speak openly with me. They must be assured they are safe now, and will be safe in the future.”

“This I can grant.” Jaffar looked at the two men. “Whatever you say, whatever is revealed here, will go no further. There will be no retribution of any kind. No punishment, no recrimination, no blame.”

When Sameh finished translating, the imam turned to the police major. “I ask that you declare the same.”

Major Lahm nodded his agreement. “I do so agree.”

Jaffar turned to the senior el-Waziri. “Friend of my father, what you may hear could cause you further distress. If you wish, you may take your leave.”

“I choose to stay.”

“Then I must have your solemn oath that nothing said here will ever be mentioned outside these walls, beyond this hour.”

“How can I refuse, when my son's life hangs in the balance?”

Jaffar looked at the young men and said, “I insist upon only one thing in return. That you give us the total truth. That you hold nothing back. This will save you. This and nothing else. Do you understand?”

The two stumbled over each other in their nervous haste to agree.

“Very well.” The imam nodded across the table to Marc. “You may proceed.”

Marc was seated at the head of the oval table, directly opposite Farouk el-Waziri. He swiveled his chair to face the two men on his left. “I want you to understand this. I only care about one thing. Alex Baird is my best friend. I want to bring him home. Along with the two missing women and this man's son. All of them. Safe and alive.”

As Sameh translated, Farouk el-Waziri gave a sound somewhere between a broken sigh and a sob.

Marc paused, then said, “I want to make a guess. If I am right, it will save us some time. If I'm wrong, point me in the right direction.”

He collected a pair of vigorous nods from the two.

“All this began when Taufiq el-Waziri agreed to study with these three missing Americans,” Marc continued. “My guess is they started with the verses in the Koran that dealt with Jesus. They studied the similarities between our two faiths. At the same time, they made no attempt to cover over the differences.”

The two young men gaped at Marc in silence.

Marc went on, “They probably made a list of the biggest issues. At the head of the page was, Muslims do not consider Jesus to be the same as our Lord. A prophet, yes. Part of the divine Trinity, no.”

When Sameh had translated, the shorter one managed to croak out, “How did you know?”

“I know my friend Alex,” Marc said. “May I continue?”

The room was so quiet, Sameh could hear the murmur of voices, probably bodyguards, rising from the courtyard. No one at the table appeared to breathe. His own voice sounded like thunder to his ears. Only Marc seemed unfazed. “As they met and forged a friendship, they began looking at the Bible. Together they studied the Gospels, the four books that tell of the life of Jesus.” Marc waited a moment, then said, “They started praying together. For peace. For Iraq. For healing. For wisdom. For barriers to fall. For Jesus to speak to them.”

The taller of the young men covered his eyes with one hand.

“You either started this study with them or joined them soon after. And what you discovered within this group was so amazing, so intense, that you could not help but talk about it. You knew the risks you faced. So you shared it only with a few select people. Even so, your numbers grew. And suddenly it was no longer only about studying Jesus, was it?”

“No,” the young man said from behind his hand. “No.”

“It was about something else along with the study,” Marc said. “It was about a miracle that was happening inside your group. And the larger your group grew, the more powerful the miracle became. At this point, your group included members of the new Alliance Party. Sunni and Shia and Kurds. All coming together to talk about Jesus. Not about religion, or differences, or tribes, or cultures, or politics. The aim that you shared, to unite your country, was no longer an impossible dream. It was happening. The miracle was coming. Through prayer. Through Jesus. Without even saying the words.”

Both young men wept openly now. Hamid Lahm repeated the earlier question, “How did you know?”

“I didn't,” Marc replied. “Until now.”