Jaffar leaned forward, his robes rustling softly. “I believe that you hear the same clock as I. The one that counts away the minutes of life remaining to our missing friends. That is why I came tonight. Because we cannot afford to wait for the sun. For we do not know, you and I, how many sunrises our friends have left to them.”
Marc asked, “What do you need from me?”
“How can I say,” Jaffar replied, “until I know what you have discovered?”
Marc glanced at Sameh. He must have found the agreement he sought, for he turned back to the imam.
Marc started at the beginning. He described his arrival at the airport. He told about Barry Duboe’s introduction to Sameh. Somewhere around the part where he met with Josh Reames for the second time, the two women began drifting back and forth from the kitchen to the living room. Bisan offered small plates and linen napkins to each of the men and refilled the cups. Plate after plate arrived, filling the coffee table with fragrant fare.
The imam ate, no doubt because it was expected of him. Sameh remained busy translating. Several times he had the impression that Jaffar understood every word Marc spoke, but used the translation to hear things a second time and reflect.
Marc spoke in his normal terse fashion and yet held nothing back. It was clearly a professional debriefing. When he was done, the imam turned to the ladies and thanked them for a delightful meal. Then he said, “Please thank the Sayyid Marc for his open candor. I come to him as a supplicant. What does the sayyid think we should do now?”
Bisan had walked over to stand beside Marc’s chair. She whispered, “I think you are hungry. I will fill your plate for you.”
Jaffar watched the child and said, “I apologize for monopolizing everyone’s time. But I feel a pressing need to see the whole picture.”
Leyla asked, “Should we offer your bodyguards refreshment?”
“It is very kind of you,” Jaffar replied, “but they do not eat when on duty.”
“Not even tea?”
The guard in the room pressed his open palm to his chest in a gesture of thanks, but declined.
Marc ate because Bisan was watching. Then he said, “May I ask a couple of questions of my own?”
When Sameh translated, the imam replied, “How could I refuse the Sayyid Marc anything?”
Marc leaned forward so his posture mirrored the imam’s. “Confidential questions.”
Imam Jaffar said to his bodyguard, “Please join your fellows out front.”
“Effendi-”
“For a moment only. I will call you.”
Miriam said, “Bisan, come, child.”
“But-”
“Bisan.” This from her mother.
The girl cast Marc a pleading glance, then reluctantly followed the other two women from the room.
Marc said to Sameh, “I believe we need to tell him what happened tonight.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“It could be… a very grave risk.”
“Yes.”
Jaffar no doubt saw Sameh’s very genuine concern. For he said, “I have a confession to make.”
“Yes?”
“The reason I gave for coming tonight, it was not complete. Not even the main one.” He studied Marc across the table. “To say more reveals what many know, yet which I normally cannot mention. An hour ago, my father left for Karbala. He is to speak tomorrow at the shrine. At my request, my father ordered the vizier to go with him.”
When Sameh finished translating, Marc settled back in his seat. “I think I understand.”
“Understand this also, Sayyid Marc. I am here with my father’s blessing. This is very important to me. My father and the vizier are part of the same generation and heritage. But how they view the future could not be more different. My father shares many of the vizier’s concerns. But he trusts me. He recognizes that these are different times, and this new generation requires different answers. But the vizier does not agree with my father’s vision.”
Marc responded by describing the chapel service. Sameh found his chest and throat tight with concern as he translated. There were so many issues here, so many barriers. Centuries of animosity. And more recently, the destruction of so many church communities. Many conservative mullahs preached messages of hatred. Entire Christian villages had been reduced to ashes and memories.
But when Marc was finished, Jaffar studied the American for a long moment, then said, “The Koran speaks of Jesus nearly one hundred times. I see that surprises you. Yes. It is true, though too many mullahs struggle to find a way to discount this. The Koran also contains a very clear commandment to maintain peace with people of the Book, our ancient way of referring to Christians and Jews.”
Jaffar’s eyes closed as he began reciting from memory a series of ayas, Koranic verses that spoke of Jesus and his miracles. Marc’s expression showed his astonishment as Sameh translated.
Jaffar went on, “The Koran has many names for Jesus. He is called ‘The Righteous One, The Pure One, The One Without Sin, The Word of Truth, God’s Witness, The Bringer of Good News, The Intercessor, The Straight Path, The Word of God.’ ” Jaffar paused, then finished with one final name: “ ‘The True Path to Follow.’ ”
Sameh had no idea how long they sat there, the three of them, locked in silence. Then from upstairs came the chimes of the hall clock. Jaffar glanced at his watch. It was enough to return them to the room and the issues at hand.
Marc said, “I had expected the church to be the connection point. But the pastors had never heard of Taufiq.”
“And I have never heard of this church. Though that is hardly a surprise.”
“Taufiq never mentioned to you any connection with the other three?”
Jaffar settled back in his seat. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Not in so many words. Taufiq and I share many interests. Even so, he would understand that some things are better left unsaid. He knows I face serious challenges.”
“The vizier,” Marc offered.
“The vizier on his own is nothing. He is an old man who should leave the halls of power and spend the remainder of his days in some dusty classroom, tending his books and troubling his students. It is who the vizier represents that threatens and troubles. If they caught the faintest hint of this conversation, they would…”
Sameh stopped translating. He had no choice. For Marc no longer sat facing him.
One moment the three of them had been seated together, speaking of mysteries beyond the night. The next the American had somehow transported himself across the room. Marc crouched where the parlor joined with the front hall, peering at the front door. Then he lowered himself further and checked out the front window.
The only sound was Jaffar’s tightly indrawn breath. Marc raised one hand, a small but unambiguous command to freeze. Which both men did.
Marc whispered, “The house has a rear entrance?”
Sameh’s heart was suddenly crowding out his breath. “Not to the outside. All interior doors open onto the courtyard, which is enclosed.”
“What about a safe room? A cellar, maybe.”
Then Sameh heard it. A faint cough, like the night was choking. “Through the kitchen.”
“Go.”
“But-”
“Now. When you’re safe, call Hamid. Jaffar, alert your headquarters.”
Sameh was in the process of rising when he heard another sound. Frantic slap-slaps upon the floor.
Bisan raced across the living room, her arms outstretched, her face contorted in silent panic.
Bisan had been listening. The women probably had no idea the girl had slipped back into the dining room. And now the child feared losing someone else who had earned a place in her life. All this Sameh processed mentally in the space it took to draw one breath and shout one word, “Bisan!”
Marc’s reaction was even faster. He spun and caught the young girl, lifting her off the floor. He threw her across the room into Sameh’s outstretched arms. Her astonishment was so great she did not make a sound.