The church’s exterior was typical Baghdad. Whatever color the stucco might once have been was now reduced to grime and raw brick. Power cables were nailed to the wall above the entrance. The steps were cracked and pitted. The entry had once been tiled with mosaics, but all that remained were a few gritty flowers around the edges.
Inside, however, all this changed.
The smell was just as Marc remembered, a patina of old incense. It surprised him just how cool the church was, as though the city’s heat was barred from entering, along with so much else.
The priests were tonsured, their remaining hair forming a circle around their scalps. They were robed in white and gold. The chants were sung without accompaniment, the priests’ voices deep and resonant. Marc felt the words in his chest, in his heart. He rose, knelt, and sat with the four. When the priest began his brief homily, Marc let his mind drift back to the last time he had been in church. How he had cupped Lisbeth’s photograph in his hands, stared at the photograph and wondered about his life. He truly felt that he had come to the turning point, finally recovering from his loss. Ready to move on. And yet, there was that question that had lurked in the shadows: move on to what?
Now here he was. Seated in the middle of an ancient church, in a land that predated history. Staring at his empty hands. And asking himself the same question. Move on to what?
When the service ended, Marc remained standing at the end of the pew. The central aisle was blocked. It seemed as though the entire congregation wanted to greet Sameh and shake his hand. The man was clearly uncomfortable with the attention, and yet he handled it well. He was every inch the gentleman, a true aristocrat in his slightly rumpled suit and the dusting of gray in his hair. He had a smile that invited confidences, and a gaze that promised neither judgment nor condemnation. Marc wondered if this was an Iraqi ability, to say so much in silence. But he thought not. He suspected it was more the measure of this man. Marc found himself watching Sameh and the three women who stood around him, hoping they might one day call him friend.
He was so intent in his reflections that he did not notice the girl’s approach until Bisan stood at his side. “Does church make you sad?”
“No, not at all.”
“You looked very-what is the word?” She tugged on Miriam’s sleeve and asked a question.
Miriam glanced back at him, then said in English, “Distressed.”
Marc found himself not the least bit uncomfortable about having to explain. Which surprised him. Talking about himself had always been difficult. But this ancient church, and the sharing of a ritual two thousand years in the making, left him not merely vulnerable but willing to confess, “Sometimes I need a place to ask myself impossible questions.”
For some reason, his words turned them all around. Even Sameh, though Marc would not have thought the man could hear him. Leyla spoke directly to him for the first time that day. “My husband, God keep his soul in peace, used to say the same thing.”
“I don’t remember that, Mama.”
“How could you. You were not yet two when he died.”
“I think I remember things. Or you tell me, and I make them my memories.”
Something about the child’s words caused Leyla’s eyes to well up. “You are my heart’s delight.”
Marc wished there were some way to thank them for speaking so openly, in English, so as to include him in the secrets and the love. He said, “Lisbeth used to say I was made to run. But even runners needed a place to stop and think and listen. Even warriors.”
“Lisbeth was your wife?”
“Yes.”
“I am sorry for your loss. So sorry.” Her voice was soft, melodic. “May God grant her eternal peace. And you.”
Miriam asked, “Please tell me, Mr. Royce. I find it very curious, you see, what troubles you this morning. If you would ask me, today is a day for celebrating. What is the most difficult question you have asked yourself this day?”
Marc found it impossible to be anything less than honest. “What I should do with the rest of my life.”
Miriam glanced at her husband, then said to Marc, “I cannot tell you that, of course. But, please, you must join us for dinner, yes?”
“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?”