The gates to the mosque’s outer wall opened. The black-shirted procession began emerging. The singing and the tambourines and the reed instruments washed over them. Marc glanced over to where Josh and one of his men stood on the back of a donkey cart, frowning at the scene. Clearly they were thinking the same thing as he. This would be the perfect time for an attack.
Marc took hold of the truck’s rear post and started to lower himself to the ground.
Then he saw the other car.
“Josh!” Marc yelled, “Hamid!”
But the volume of noise was astonishing. The three men from the truck still yelled at them. And the noise of the procession continued to mount. Not to mention the chorus of a hundred other drivers and passengers returning to their cars and offering their own shrill opinions of the whole charade.
Marc leaped down from the truck and swiped Hamid’s shoulder. The major turned angrily, ready to cuff whoever dared touch him. Marc was already running.
Marc yelled, “Trouble!”
Traffic had backed up several hundred yards. The main road leading into the square was in gridlock.
Only there was one car, too far back to get anywhere near the station and the mosque, which was desperate to get away.
Marc raced through the frozen traffic. Hamid ran with him. And Josh.
The car must have seen them. Because its maneuvering grew desperate. The car banged hard against the vehicle in front, pushing it into the truck next in line. Then it slammed into reverse.
Marc heard the squeal of tires and saw smoke rising as the fleeing car hammered the vehicle behind.
People began emerging from nearby cars and shouting at the driver.
The car rammed its way out of the congestion and mounted the sidewalk. The engine roared its warning, clearing away patrons at an outdoor cafe. The car careened through the pedestrians, sending shopping bags and cafe tables and hookahs flying.
Marc yelled as loud as he could for the people to get down, down. Trainee police from the encampment gaped at him and Hamid and Josh. Hamid shouted something. The police stepped aside.
The car rounded a corner and roared down an alley. Hamid caught up with Marc as they passed the cafe patrons pulling themselves from the pavement. Hamid held a gun over his head. As did Marc. And Josh, who rushed up to Marc’s other side.
They rounded the corner to see the car’s rear end fishtailing its way through the narrow space, sparks flying as it hit structures on either side. The three men stood shoulder to shoulder. Hamid yelled, “Tires! Tires!”
They fired in unison. The car’s left rear tire slumped. More sparks flew. As the car neared the alley’s opposite end, bullets took out the rear windscreen.
Then the alley was filled with fire, a blast, and a hail of metal rain.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
T he four Tikriti families arrived at the hospital soon after all the other reunions were completed. The medical staff knew who they were, of course. Two of the nurses and a janitor made themselves scarce the instant they arrived. One of Hamid’s men looked like he wanted to do the same. Sameh did not speak. There was nothing he could do about the situation. A change in the regime did not erase memories or bring back loved ones. Leyla, bless her, responded with her customary warmth. She brought the adults tea, filled the empty silences with quiet conversation, and personally supervised the reunions.
Sameh held the most important family for last. This man had occupied a lesser position on Saddam’s inner council for several years. He had been privy to much, and blind to even more. He wore his shame like a cloak. His name was Kazim.
Sameh waited until Leyla had settled the glass of tea before the man to say, “You were approached during America’s attempts to bring the Tikriti into peace talks.”
The gentleman’s hand shook slightly as he lifted the tea. “I was.”
“How are your connections now?”
“The Americans call when they want something. I have never had the courage to ask them for anything. But for you…”
“I was not speaking,” Sameh said, “of the Americans.”
During the Iraq troop surge, some of the heaviest fighting took place in the Triangle of Death. The U.S. generals assaulted the terrorists’ strongholds with overwhelming force, tactics the Americans referred to as “shock and awe.” Then they sought out potential allies within the local community, offering these elders safety and support in rebuilding, so long as they turned their backs on the insurgents. The Tikriti seated across from Sameh had been one of the first to respond.
Kazim took a careful look around the room before replying, his voice low, “The extremists have condemned me to death.”
“They also stole your child, no?”
“The enemy who committed this crime is unknown to me. But the hand who pulled the strings, yes. That is my thought.”
Sameh was feeling his way forward here. “Did the kidnappers issue a ransom demand?”
Kazim took his time settling the tea glass back in the saucer. “Who is this asking me such questions? And for what purpose?”
His wife was seated a few feet away, rocking their three-year-old daughter in her lap. Most of the reunions had followed a similar pattern. The children wailed and clung to their parents. Some even struck at them for leaving them to be captured. When the pent-up anxiety was released, however, the children fell asleep. Their little fists clung to the parent holding them. Nothing disturbed their desperate slumber, not even the next family’s noisy reunion.
His wife leaned forward and poked at her husband. “What kind of question is that? You must address with respect this honored gentleman who saved our child, and you must answer him.”
“Your husband asks a valid question,” Sameh calmed her. “We are searching for three missing Americans and a missing Iraqi. A Shia youth.”
Kazim said, “Again I must ask, who is this ‘we’?”
“That is why I speak with you now. The answer is, I do not know. It appears that some Americans would prefer to see them stay lost. While others seek them. And the same is true with the Iraqi community.”
“And the government?”
“The family is not without influence. The father is one of the Grand Imam’s largest supporters. But the government refuses to assist. They say the son has eloped. With an American nurse.”
“Is this possible?”
“We have evidence that it is not.” Sameh had the distinct impression that nothing he said surprised the Tikriti. “But few seem to care.”
“So they seek to shame the imam and his followers.”
“Perhaps.” Sameh grew increasingly certain the man knew more than he was saying. “And yet there are questions without answers. Such as, why have the kidnappers not asked for ransom? And why are there those among both governments who pretend nothing has happened?”
A remnant of the man’s former presence returned. Kazim’s hands ended their nervous clasping and unclasping in his lap. The eyes became hooded. Sameh shivered. Oh yes. The man knew.
Kazim asked, “And why approach me with such questions?”
“Another of this group, an ally to the new regime, he too had a child taken.”
“His name?”
“I cannot say, any more than I would ever disclose yours.”
Kazim nodded his understanding. Otherwise the man had gone completely still. As though he was seated back at the council table, with the madman Saddam at its head. Where any gesture or word or even glance could be reason enough for his demise.
Sameh went on, “This gentleman who lost a child as you did, he never received a ransom request. And when he approached the government for assistance, they turned deaf. And when his child was returned, they acted as though it had never been taken.”
Kazim did a curious thing. He turned in his chair and looked at his wife. The woman responded with a slow nod, her face full of the dread wisdom that comes from residing close to deadly power. “You should tell Sayyid el-Jacobi all you can.”