He turned to Hassan. “Tell me what I am missing.”
“I am a major financial backer of several politicians you see here tonight. I have a great reason to celebrate. My young son is returned to me. So why am I not surrounded by allies wishing to share my joy?”
Sameh rose to his feet. As he did so, several faces glanced over, then swiftly turned away.
Hassan rose to stand beside him. “In my office, you told me to call my allies in the government. You were hurrying to meet the Americans, and I desperately needed your help, so how was I to dispute your orders? Even so, there were two problems with your request. First, as I said, I had already been phoning these people. From the moment I heard my son was taken, I called. And no one returned my calls. What is more, I cannot even establish why they refused to speak with me.”
Sameh could see it now. The tables holding the power elite seemed determined not to look their way. The two of them had become pariahs.
Hassan went on, “I give them financial aid. I ask nothing in return but for Iraq to form a stable government. How could they refuse to help me in my hour of need?”
Sameh continued to probe the chamber’s mystery. “And the second problem?”
“Remember what you said. Talk to my friends in government.” Hussein gripped Sameh’s arm in frustration. “Iraq has no government. They have been struggling to put together a majority since the election. The old cabinet remains in power, and Parliament spends its days wrangling over the crumbs of our future.”
“You think the old regime kidnapped your son? Why would they do this? To fragment the Alliance?”
“I know it sounds crazy. But what other reason could there be?” Hassan released Sameh’s jacket. “Shall I walk over and show you what it means to be a pariah?”
“Stay where you are.” There was nothing to be gained from a public confrontation, though Sameh was curious just how it might play out. “I have no logical reason, but my gut tells me the disappearance of your son and the four adults are tied together somehow.”
Hassan was shaking his head long before Sameh finished relating what he knew, and what Marc and Major Lahm had supposed. “This makes no sense.”
“I agree. But neither does the kidnapping of your son, followed by days of silence. Unless…”
“Yes?”
Sameh shook his head. The idea hovered just beyond his mental horizon, a whisper that he could not decipher. “Anything you might be able to discover would be considered a debt repaid. Anything at all.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
M arc traveled into the Green Zone by way of another Rhino. He saw far less of the journey than when entering Baghdad. The armored personnel carrier that lumbered down the alley and opened its door and dragged him inside was manned by a weary and saddle-worn team. Hands pulled him in, other hands slammed the door, still others pointed him to an empty seat. Marc wasn’t certain they even saw him. Or cared. He was just another package. One more duty to get done before they could head for safety and hot showers and a meal that didn’t taste like the desert.
The troops blocked the windows and spoke only to call out terse warnings, the voices of wired soldiers pushed beyond human limits. They halted by the Green Zone barriers, endured the sharp-eyed inspection by the Iraqis on duty, then trundled around the antitank barricades. Marc watched the soldiers start to slump before the lieutenant ordered them to stand down.
They dropped him off in front of a palace that had seen better days. Bullet holes were visible from the checkpoint, gouges and stabs that dug into the wall framed by American and Iraqi flags. The palms lining the street and shading the guardhouse were dusty and limp in the heat.
Barry Duboe stood on the embassy checkpoint’s other side. He greeted Marc with a grin that divided his face in two, the lower half smiling a welcome, the upper half squinted in warning.
Wordlessly, Duboe led him deep into the embassy’s bowels, past glittering chambers that had been segmented with cheap shoulder-high partitions. They entered a windowless room that might once have been a large closet. Duboe asked the young man behind the desk, “He ready for us?”
“Yes, sir.” The young man showed Marc the expression of a cat playing with its meal. Bored anticipation, bloodless humor. “Go right on in.”
Jordan Boswell was a typical white-bread bureaucrat. Not tall, not short, not skinny, not thick. Gray suit. Thinning brown hair. Coldly intelligent eyes. “This him?”
“Marc Royce.” Barry Duboe selected a chair between the side window and the filing cabinets. Positioning himself out of the firing line. “Jordan Boswell, deputy to the United States ambassador.”
Boswell’s voice was pompous, New England, nasal. “How dare you force me to change the venue of our meeting? You should be grateful I don’t have you arrested after that little charade.”
He lifted his chin slightly to emphasize certain words. The result was less than impressive, since the chin held all the strength of a china doll. “And don’t try to tell me about a bomb threat. This is Baghdad. There’s always a bomb threat.”
Boswell did not offer Marc a chair. Marc gave the man nothing in reply.
“If you’d been around at all, you’d know you live with threats. You get on with the job. Which brings us to the reason for this meeting.” Boswell planted a narrow elbow on his desk and aimed a finger at Marc. “You have no idea what is happening on the ground here. You are hereby ordered to cease and desist. Tell me you hear what I’m saying.”
“Sir,” Marc replied.
“You do not have authorization for such an insane act as attacking a civilian house with only a group of prison guards. You think this is about rescuing some kids? A hundred more will disappear today! What are you going to do, rescue them too? Stay around and become a one-man kiddy patrol?”
Marc maintained his posture. Playing the stone statue. Focusing upon a point at the center of the man’s forehead, a half inch below his receding hairline.
“Your juvenile pranks could have cost us thousands of lives. Try another stunt like that and I will personally crush you.” Boswell rose to his feet. “This is a war zone. You follow orders. You observe and report. That was the remit handed you before you left Washington. That is what you will do. That and nothing more. Tell me you understand.”
“Sir.”
“Get out.”
– – Duboe ushered him through the door and into what had probably once been the palace’s main gallery. He checked Marc front and back, then decided, “You look singed. But no gaping wounds. Knowing Boswell, I’d call that a good day.”
Marc expected to be led back through security and out into another waiting armored carrier. Instead, Duboe pointed him onto a bench by the side wall and sat down next to him. “The Americans who live out where you’ve been operating, the subcontractors and the aide agency types, they call this area the Green Republic.” Duboe’s voice was barely above a whisper. “As in, a world and a law unto itself. Boswell is a perfect example of the Republic’s other face. He and his ilk are out to reshape the world in their own image. It makes for some friction with the Iraqis in power, since the ’Racks have the impression this is their country.”
The hall was high-ceilinged and floored in marble. A few palms rose from giant tubs. Otherwise the space was utterly unadorned. People scurried by in every direction, their footfalls echoing like rain. All the military Marc saw were officers. “Why would the ambassador’s aide consider my investigation so important he has to issue a personal warning?”
“That’s a good question, Royce. Here’s another. How much is the answer worth to you? Because what you’re asking could cost you everything.” Duboe’s dark humor had faded from his voice. “Don’t mistake Boswell for a toothless wimp. He will bust you. He will bust you so bad you’ll have years to weep over all the lost chances.”