Their guide knocked on a metal door. The man who responded was so massive as to nearly block the light from within. The guide whispered something, and the guard stepped aside.
Sameh knew another urge to turn and flee. Leave the American and this dank entryway and this guide who had refused to speak his name. He did not know how he found the courage to slip past the guard and enter.
Chapter Thirty-Two
T he five guards inside the doorway seemed rather odd to Sameh. For one thing, they were dressed in a conventional fashion, more like business executives than sentries. They also were very respectful. And something else. Sameh waited in a line of nine people. A female guard checked the women in a discreetly curtained alcove. Marc was in front of him, their guide next. Sameh had time to scrutinize the scene. Even so, he was almost through the security screening before he realized what it was that was so different.
The guards were at peace, even happy.
They checked each person thoroughly. But they also revealed a quiet humor, speaking with the children as they completed the search. They smiled at families they recognized and spoke a welcome. As though they all belonged.
When each person completed the inspection process, the guard standing by the inner doorway hit a switch and the electronic lock clicked. As the guests passed, the guard murmured softly. It was only when Sameh was walking through the inner portal that he made out the guard’s words. “Blessings and peace upon you and yours.”
The words so startled Sameh, he stopped to look at the man, and only moved forward when the closing door pushed him in the back. He had just been given the standard Sabbath blessing. Among Christians. Spoken by a guard whose beard and dress suggested he was Shia.
Their guide was more at ease now. He directed them to a second staircase, this one descending in a gentle curve. “We should hurry.”
But Marc halted him. “Back there, you hadn’t come looking for Alex.”
The guide looked at Marc, then at Sameh. He said in Arabic, “Your friend is police?”
“Intelligence. Is he correct?”
Marc said, “Alex and the women would know to come here. You went to the church looking for someone else.”
The guide replied to Sameh, “We must have a place where newcomers can come and be monitored. This changes from week to week. How did you get the church address?”
“Taufiq’s father found it on his son’s personal calendar.” Sameh wanted to ask, Newcomers to what? But the man had already turned and started down the stairs.
Their destination was a cool breath from the past. The Ottomans had ruled Baghdad for centuries; precisely how long depended upon who was telling the tale. The sultans in Constantinople had appointed local rulers who had grown increasingly independent. The history of Iraq contained many tragedies wrought by despotic rulers. Saddam Hussein was far from the worst, only the most recent.
The ruling caliphs had built interconnected underground chambers, peaked structures fashioned from rose-tinted brick and supported by iron columns sheathed in more brick. Nowadays they were used mostly as storage areas, for they were windowless and cool and easily protected.
The stairs emptied into an antechamber, where two more guards manned yet another locked door. Once again the arrivals and the guards exchanged the traditional blessing. Sameh saw their guide shake a guard’s hand, the guard pat the young man’s back. Two friends joined by… what?
The door was pulled open and they entered a different world.
The brick-lined room was perhaps eighty paces wide and half again as long. The fluorescent lighting illuminated a large crowd. They were singing, some with hands lifted toward the ceiling. Marc turned and looked at him in astonishment, but Sameh was so bewildered he could not respond. The underground chamber was packed.
But that was not the evening’s greatest surprise. Not even close.
Their guide turned to Sameh and offered his hand. “The blessings and peace of Jesus upon you, Sameh el-Jacobi. I am Salim Abu Bakr.”
Sameh took the young man’s hand, but found himself unable to respond.
The man’s name was Sunni.
Sameh had been led into a church. Past guards who were Shia. By a Sunni. In Baghdad.
The young man seemed to find humor in Sameh’s silence. He smiled, then turned and offered his hand to Marc. He stumbled over the greeting in English, yet he did his best.
Marc shook the man’s hand, fumbling at the words himself.
The front of the hall contained a waist-high stage holding a lectern and several chairs. Sameh’s mind was a jumble of disconnected thoughts as Salim ushered them forward, down the central aisle, and into seats midway to the front. Sameh saw a few faces he vaguely recognized but could not place.
Then Marc nudged him. “Check out the family at two o’clock.”
Sameh scouted the crowd and was about to ask who Marc meant. Then the hymn ended, and as the congregation seated themselves, Sameh saw the couple.
It was one of the Tikriti families. The mother held their infant son in her arms. The son Sameh had helped recover.
Sameh was still trying to take this in when he realized Marc had left his seat and circled around the back of the room. He approached the stage from the left side. But his progress was halted by two more guards, whom Sameh had not seen until that moment. Marc lifted his open hands to show they were empty, the easy gesture of a man with a long understanding of risk and danger. The guards still did not let him pass.
Marc pointed to the pastors seated behind the podium. He then reached into his pocket. Instantly the two guards gripped his arms.
The Tikriti father hurried over. He spoke to the guards, gently prying away their hands. Marc spoke to him. The Iraqis shook their heads, then one said something. Marc frowned, but nodded. All the eyes in the chapel followed Marc’s progress back to his seat.
The service was in Arabic yet followed a pattern more Western than any Sameh had observed in a Baghdad church. Marc waited until they stood for another song to mutter, “I just wanted to pass a note to the pastor requesting his help.”
“What did our friend tell you?”
Marc glanced at Sameh. “Here is only Jesus.”
Sameh spotted a judge from the central Baghdad court. He stood next to a woman lawyer who handled family-related cases. Both were Shia. The prayer was lengthy, the sermon brief and to the point: Jesus offered the miracle of peace and transformation to all who came to him. From time to time Sameh leaned over and offered Marc a quick translation.
Sameh also saw acquaintances from within the Christian community. As the singing began again after the message, Sameh found himself comparing this gathering to his usual Sabbath service. He was an elder in the church where his father and grandfathers had both served, and countless forefathers before them. His grandfather claimed that the family had attended the same church for over a thousand years. Sameh knew everyone in his church community. He knew their secrets. He had grown up with all but one of the priests. The Baghdad Christian community had endured the Saddam years together. Their faith and the clans were as integral a part of their lives as breathing. As their blood. As their children.
And yet, they were insular by nature. Sameh had often spoken of this with those who cared to listen. They viewed the church almost like a private club. They had survived by going unnoticed. They taught their children to hide their faith. And thus their numbers stayed about the same, year after year.
The priest asked everyone to join hands for the Lord’s Prayer. Sameh took Marc’s hand, then grasped the man’s hand on his other side. He glanced around the room, and saw a miracle. Sunni holding hands with Shia, Christian with Muslim. Praying aloud the words. As one.