Suddenly he could not stop weeping. The men to either side, Marc and the stranger, released his hands so Sameh could cover his face. Both men placed a hand upon Sameh’s shoulders. American and Iraqi. Consoling him. Praying.
Sameh wept for himself, for his family, for his nation. They had all endured so much. The divides of religion and tribe and history. All the wounds of his beloved land. They hid so much, even from themselves, for to speak of these things only invited despair and futile rage.
And yet here and now, in this place, the impossible was happening. Sameh dragged in a ragged breath, struggling for control. Only then did he realize that the two men still gripped his shoulders. There with him and for him. Together.
Chapter Thirty-Three
S ameh remained in his chair after the service ended. Marc drifted over to a quiet corner, away from the departing crowd. Sameh watched him place a phone call. Marc returned and said simply that he did not want Miriam and Leyla to worry. Sameh nodded his thanks. He knew he should say more. But just then his heart felt too full.
Marc stood in the empty aisle not far from where Sameh was seated. Sameh thought he should rise as well, depart the underground chapel, move on to the next thing. But he could not leave behind what he had just witnessed. The wonder of it left him immobile. His normally agile mind felt robbed of its ability to shape a coherent thought.
Footsteps brought someone down the central aisle. Sameh lifted his gaze to see the Tikriti father holding his son in his arms. He said simply, “Come with me.”
Sameh rose and numbly shuffled up the aisle. The Tikriti walked around the altar and entered a door on the platform’s other side. Two of the pastors stood shoulder to shoulder, and beside them were two older women in brilliantly colored headscarves. The four of them rested their hands upon a couple who knelt on the stone floor. Sameh recognized the woman as a lawyer he had dealt with in court. The pastors joined in an amen, and the couple rose. Sameh kept his gaze downcast and murmured a Sabbath blessing, uncertain whether to even acknowledge that he knew the woman. But she obviously felt no such hesitation, for she touched the back of his hand as she passed and said, “I am glad you have joined us.”
The pastors, though, were clearly troubled by their presence. One was Arab, the other obviously Western. But both shared the same look of wary concern. As did the two women.
But the Tikriti stepped forward, his little son clinging to his neck. In a voice that filled the chamber, he announced, “These men are friends to all Iraqis. They carry with them the Spirit of peace.”
No one spoke as the man and his son left the chamber. Sameh rubbed his face hard, determined not to lose control a second time in this day.
When Sameh did not speak, Marc said, “We need your help.”
“No.” Sameh had to clear his throat twice to continue. “No, I am sorry, my friend, but that is not why we are here. We came for one reason. We stay for another. After what I have just experienced, I find it hard to ask for anything more. Except perhaps your blessing.”
“You have that,” the Arab pastor replied.
“Tell me, please, what it is I have just seen.”
The four watching them visibly relaxed. The Western pastor introduced himself as Jason Allerby, then asked in Arabic, “I take it your English is fluent?”
“It is.” Sameh recognized the man’s accent. “You learned your Arabic in Cairo?”
“My parents were missionaries there. You know the city?”
“I did my law studies at Cairo University.”
“I was raised in the slums beyond Ghiza.”
“Then you are indeed a survivor.” The Ghiza slums were notorious as a haven for disease and radical Islam.
The other pastor also switched to English and said, “First of all, we do not ever mention the word Christian. There are too many trappings attached to that word, too much history. For most Arab Muslims, Christianity represents the Crusades and Western colonization and oppression. Here and now, we come together in the name of Jesus. That for us is everything.”
Sameh reflected on what he had experienced during the Lord’s Prayer. He had not identified who had been standing next to him, or whose hand he had held. He did not know whether the man had been Sunni or Shia or Christian. And yet when he had wept, the man had offered comfort.
Sameh said, “Everything.”
“We do not seek to convert here,” the Western pastor said. “We look only to befriend. To illuminate and represent Jesus. Nothing more can be achieved through human efforts. The only way to transform an individual’s understanding is from within. Through the power of the Holy Spirit.”
Sameh found his entire body moving in cadence to the words, as though rocked by unseen winds. “I did feel it. Tonight.”
“Our meetings are mostly in small home churches. We only gather here once a month. We do so on an irregular basis, for safety. These home groups are led by people from the community. Trusted people.”
Marc said, “I am trying to locate three missing Americans who led small groups.”
The pastors did not respond.
“Alex Baird, Hannah Brimsley, Claire Reeves,” Marc said. “They were involved with an outreach. Along with Taufiq el-Waziri.”
The Western pastor frowned. “Who?”
“Taufiq. A missing Iraqi.”
The pastor glanced at his associate, who hesitated, then shook his head and replied, “I do not know this name.”
One of the women asked in Arabic, “This is el-Waziri, the merchant family?”
“The same.” Sameh described the young man. When all four shook their heads, he looked at Marc. “I don’t understand.”
The Western pastor said, “Hannah Brimsley led a women’s group in the Green Zone. She and I met at a regional conference in Jerusalem. She brought in Alex and Claire.”
The other woman spoke in heavily accented English, “You know these people?”
“I have never met any of them,” Sameh replied.
“When I hold the hands of these three and pray, I feel the Spirit.” She held up two gnarled hands. “The power, it rushes over me.”
The Arab pastor agreed, “They have great hearts.”
“Hands for healing,” the woman went on. “Especially Claire.”
The Western pastor said, “It is true what we hear, the three may have been kidnapped?”
Sameh and Marc exchanged another glance. Sameh said, “You do not know?”
“We know they missed leading their weekly small groups. Nothing else. When I asked at the embassy, I was told they were on vacation. But we’ve since heard rumors that something might be very wrong.”
“They are not on holiday,” Sameh told them. “They have been abducted. We are trying to find them.”
“And this Iraqi? He was with them?”
“Taufiq el-Waziri went missing the same day. We assume the disappearances are connected.”
“I have never heard this name.”
The associate confirmed, “I make it a point of knowing all the locals who become involved here. It is vital, you understand?”
“For safety.”
“For everyone. This Taufiq el-Waziri has not come.”
Marc said, “We’ve heard a rumor that he eloped with Claire Reeves.”
“Impossible.” The Arab pastor said it with utter certainty. “Claire was a very dear friend of Hannah’s. I saw them both quite often. If Claire had a significant relationship, I would have known about it.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” Marc said.
One of the elderly women said in broken English, “We will pray. For our friends.”
Marc thanked them and started to turn away. But Sameh halted him. “Before we go, could I ask that you pray for us as well?”
Chapter Thirty-Four
T hey left the underground chapel at ten minutes after nine that night. Sameh was distracted and overwhelmed by all he had seen and heard and felt. He found the way back to the main road, trying to remember where he had left the car. Behind them, the market was still noisy and bustling with activity.