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 cafe. 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?”