“He’s scared about something,” Marc interpreted.
“No, Royce. Boswell is angry. In the space of a few days you’ve threatened to upset his power structure. He wants to send you back. But Walton and his allies have blocked him. He sees that as a temporary setback. If you stick around the Red Zone, Boswell will find a way to take you out without getting his hands dirty.” Duboe gave him a sniper’s inspection, hard and unblinking. “You’re the one who needs to be scared.”
Marc met his gaze. “Alex is still missing. Unless Walton orders me home, I’m staying on the hunt.”
Duboe rose to his feet. “In that case, it’s time for round two.”
– – The U.S. ambassador’s office overlooked an interior garden that in its heyday must have been something to behold. Eight imperial palms poked their fringed fingers fifty feet into the cloudless blue sky. Each tree’s circular plot was trimmed in hand-painted tiles joined to a winding brick path. Marc counted four fountains, only one of which now worked. The flower beds were unkempt, with weeds overwhelming the remaining blossoms. Limbs of miniature trees drooped from their burden of overripe fruit. Brilliantly colored birds flitted about, no doubt perplexed by the disarray.
The ambassador was a well-polished version of the Washington power broker. He wore the requisite pinstriped suit with the same ease as his smile. His gray hair and his gleaming skin and his buffed nails spoke of careful and constant attention to the package. He pointed Marc into the visitor’s seat opposite his desk and said, “You have managed to make some powerful enemies in quite a brief period, Mr. Royce.”
Marc seated himself and saw that Barry had planted himself on the sofa in the room’s far corner. “Does that include you?”
“Oh, no. I try to remain above all that. Someone has to.”
“Will you tell me who is behind my opposition? And why?”
The ambassador swiveled his seat so as to face the rear windows. “Can you imagine any reason why they won’t grant me the use of a couple of troops as gardeners? Our remaining bases are filled to the brim with soldiers doing nothing. We’re caught in a purgatory of our own making. Officially we’re disengaging. Unofficially, if we leave, the government collapses. So our bases remain on high alert. Which means all troops are on active duty. And security claims they can’t properly vet a menial gardener. So I spend my days staring at weeds.”
Marc’s gut told him the ambassador was sending him a message, but he could only come up with, “Your hands are tied.”
The ambassador remained as he was, staring out the back windows. He might have nodded.
“If you can’t tell me who, what about why they are opposed to my being here?”
“That should be apparent even to a novice like you, Mr. Royce. They don’t want these missing people found.”
“But why?”
The ambassador took a pen from his pocket, spinning it between the fingers of one hand. “The Iraqi government is not a government, Mr. Royce. Did you know that?”
Marc clamped down on his impatience. He wanted to shout at the man, remind him that lives were at stake. And friends. Stating the obvious would get him nowhere. “No sir.”
“The justice minister you and your group managed to turn into an ally has officially been out of a job since the election. But no party won a majority, and the Arabs are not skilled in the art of political compromise. So the old government remains in a caretaker status while the newly elected parliament wrangles. Meanwhile, the vital work of state goes undone. I am afraid, as are others both here and in Washington, that Iraq’s nationhood is balanced on a knife’s edge.”
“You’re saying Alex and his group were somehow tied up in this?”
“I have no idea, Mr. Royce. And neither does Barry Duboe.” The ambassador turned around and faced Marc. He was no longer smiling. “What we can tell you is this. There are some powerful people, both here and in Washington, who want you to stop asking your questions.”
Marc found himself liking the man. It was utterly illogical. Anyone who had climbed to the top of the diplomatic ladder was a pro at getting on the right side of people. And no doubt, given the word, he would insert the knife with the same ease as Jordan Boswell. Even so, Marc found himself needing to ask, “Do you also want me to shut up and go away?”
The ambassador’s face tightened in what might have been approval. “I appreciate the question, young man. But I can’t answer you.”
Marc nodded. The man had done precisely that. “I understand.”
“What I can tell you, Mr. Royce, is that it would be a good idea if your Iraqi associate-what is his name?”
Barry Duboe spoke up for the first time. “Sameh el-Jacobi.”
“Yes. Your associate would be well advised to accept my offer.”
“Which is?”
“Four green cards. One for himself, his wife, his niece, and her daughter. I’m told Mr. el-Jacobi has remained a member of the Washington bar. He will be granted introductions to the highest levels of our U.S.-based activities. He could be drowning in well-paid work. His future is limitless.”
Marc decided to play his hunch that the ambassador wanted to be on their side, even if it was a risk. So he asked, “Could you give us a week to think over your offer?”
“Absolutely not.” Yet the ambassador seemed to genuinely approve of the question. “Completely out of the question.”
“How much time could you manage?”
The ambassador showed no surprise at all. “What makes you think I can give you any time at all?”
Marc remained silent. Hopeful.
“Officially, your associate has until five o’clock tomorrow. Not a moment longer.” The ambassador glanced at Duboe. He hesitated, then said, “I need a lever. Something to convince the watchers that you are too big to touch.”
“If I can do that, how long?”
“An additional seventy-two hours. And that’s it.”
“I’ll do what I can. Thanks.”
The ambassador rose to his feet. “Tell Mr. el-Jacobi that this offer comes care of some very powerful interests. These same people will become his worst enemies if he continues with the investigation. They will do their utmost to crush him. And you as well.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
A s Sameh was leaving the literary cafe, his cellphone rang. Aisha, her voice low, said, “I must ask you to come back to the office, sir.”
“Not now, Aisha. I’m tired, and the American is coming for dinner.” The American. As though there was only one of them in all of Baghdad.
“Leyla says she will take your car and pick up Marc. You need to return here. Now.”
Sameh went, mostly because Aisha was not one for histrionics. If she indicated there was an emergency, she had reason for it. Sameh flagged a passing taxi and seated himself beside the driver. For once, the center of Baghdad was not a massive parking lot. They made good time.
The street in front of his office was empty of police and newspeople and distraught parents. Even so, the entry hall and cracked marble stairs seemed to echo with all that had come before. Sameh imagined the old building had somehow managed to absorb the day’s heavy burden and was releasing it now in silent wisps of grief.
Four families were seated in his outer office. Cups of tea sat untouched before each of them. Sameh recognized one of the men from the bad old days, and instantly the situation snapped into focus.
One of the first empire builders in recorded history, Sargon, ruled Iraq around 2300 BC. As his armies conquered the fertile crescent and his reach expanded to include parts of what today is Syria, India, Iran, and Egypt, Sargon filled his top positions with members of his own village clan. These tribesmen made up his innermost circle and were appointed to rule over the far-flung provinces.
This same ruling structure had been adopted by a more recent dictator, Saddam Hussein.