The room was a throwback to a different era. The linoleum floor was so worn the concrete underneath showed through in patches. Overhead a fluorescent light buzzed faintly. A mosquito net was bundled to one side of the bed, and a ceiling fan rattled as it turned. The bed was metal and had to be cranked by hand. But everything was spotlessly clean and smelled of disinfectant.
Jaffar, Sameh, Bisan, and Hamid Lahm all crowded into the room as the nurse helped him into the bed. The attendant turned to scold them, and when they did not listen, he shooed them out with unmistakable gestures.
Bisan swept under the nurse’s arms and rushed over to wrap her arms around Marc’s neck. He lay where he was, his arms to his sides, uncertain what to do. Finally, Sameh came and gently pried the girl’s hands away. “Wish our friend a safe and restful night.”
Bisan’s eyes were wet. She looked at him but did not speak.
Sameh said to Marc, “I have spoken with Miriam. We will move into a hotel tonight. For the child, you understand? The police will be in our home for hours more.”
“A good idea.”
Hamid Lahm said, “We will post guards at the house and their hotel room. And here.”
Jaffar said nothing. He gave Marc a fraction of a bow, a long look, then joined the nervous hospital administrator in the hallway.
The nurse ushered the rest of them out, then returned with a paper cup of pills and a glass of water. He watched Marc take them, then said something in Arabic that needed no translation.
Marc was asleep before the nurse turned out the lights.
– – Marc struggled to open his eyes and slowly moved his head. The clock over the door read half past nine. It had been years since he had slept so late. His last dream had been about Alex and the first time they had ever discussed faith. The image lingered, his voice so clear that Marc could hear it still.
Alex had been prepping him for a mission to Ecuador. They had taken their work with them to dinner, Marc’s last meal before flying south. Their profession usually stressed attitudes of compartmentalization and intense privacy. But that night Alex had described what the field did to men, drenching them in adrenaline, turning them into stone-cold operatives. Marc had known Alex’s wife had left him a few years ago. Alex had confessed that he had not been strong enough to hold on to what was gentle and good and genuine, not without help from beyond. Unfortunately, he had not discovered this until it had been too late to save his marriage.
Marc’s response had seemed to spring from something outside himself. He told Alex that when he went on a mission, it felt as though he left his faith behind. Just like he hung up the suit he wore to the office and donned field gear. Simple as that. After he had finished speaking, Marc had felt ashamed. He wished he had not spoken at all. Then Alex had replied that he could have said the exact same words.“Maybe you’re stronger than me, able to take on these duties and remain fully intact. Down deep where it matters. I hope so. Far as I’m concerned, I need God close as breath to stay whole.”
That had been just like Alex, putting the eternal in straight and simple terms. Making it live for an intelligence agent so amped by the coming action he could hardly hear himself think, much less keep room for faith.
Later that evening, when Alex had driven him to the airfield and the waiting transport, it had seemed a natural thing to pray together before Marc left the car. And to call the man brother upon his return.
– – Marc’s room had a private shower. None of the hospital ward’s staff spoke English, but they understood what he wanted, and a nurse helped him unwrap his ribs and put a waterproof cover on his arm bandage. He stayed under the shower until his skin felt parboiled. Emerging lobster red, he dressed in the hospital blues the nurse had left out for him. He wheeled the bed against the wall to grant him maximum floor space and went through a series of stretches. Whenever his ribs or his arm came dangerously close to unbearable pain, he eased off a fraction, waited, then continued the stretch. The nurse came in several times, shook his head, and retreated.
An hour and a half later, he was returning to bed when his cellphone rang. Sameh asked, “How did you sleep?”
“Almost too well.”
“I’m most happy to hear that.” The lawyer sounded exhausted. “Miriam says, please do yourself a favor and don’t touch the hospital food. She and Leyla are preparing you a meal.”
“They shouldn’t concern themselves-”
“Please, don’t even start.” Sameh was halted by women’s voices in the background. “Leyla asks if you wish for anything special.”
“That is the best word to describe all the food they’ve made for me,” Marc replied. “Special.”
Sameh might have smiled. “You certainly do know how to charm Iraqi women. We are now at the house. Miriam says we should be with you in an hour.”
Marc declined breakfast but accepted the nurse’s offer of tea. He drank half a dozen cups and ate a single piece of cold flatbread. The night’s rest had left him feeling not merely better but restored. He settled back in bed, arranging the pillows so he could look at the view through the window. Every time the door opened, he could see one of Lahm’s men seated in the hall. He liked the feeling of safety. It granted him an opportunity to sort through the jumble of experiences, and analyze.
He imagined he was preparing a report for Ambassador Walton. Marc’s former boss had always preferred a dual approach. First, Walton demanded a terse march along the timeline. Then he ordered everything be relisted in terms of relative importance. The ambassador used this as a means of judging whether his investigators were focusing the proper amount of time and resources on the various options. These two-track discussions also exposed possible fault lines and areas that had been overlooked.
Marc was still involved in his analysis when a knock on the door announced the arrival of Sameh and his family. Bisan rushed over and greeted him the same way she had said farewell, wrapping her arms around his neck. Miriam and Leyla clucked over the child’s exuberance, but they smiled as well. The two women wore brightly colored headscarves and long gray mantles, a modest combination of robe and summer coat.
Leyla stood at the foot of his bed and asked how he had slept. Hamid’s officer, one who had joked with him at the market square, walked in bearing a portable table. After a glance in Leyla’s direction, he grinned at Marc and drew his finger across his throat.
Marc was still attired in threadbare hospital blues. He was very glad when Sameh said they had stopped by his hotel and handed over the backpack. While the women spread out a tablecloth and dishes, Marc went into the bathroom to change.
The women unloaded a portable feast. Marc ate and ate, the three females hovering over him. Eventually they were joined by Marc’s doctor, two nurses, the police officer, and a medical technician. The hospital staff brought their own plates and utensils, as though such impromptu meals were a regular part of their lives. Folding chairs were set up by the window. Bisan stood by Marc’s side, at his nod occasionally lifting a bite from his plate to her mouth.
When they all were finished, two nurses brought trays filled with fragrant glasses of mint tea. Another pair of doctors appeared in the doorway. All the while they conversed in Arabic. Sometimes Sameh translated, sometimes Bisan, occasionally Leyla. Marc scarcely heard what was being said. His mind and heart were held by the sense of family, of being accepted at a level so strong and deep, their presence filled him with a gratitude he could not express.
Someone in the doorway glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widened, and he said something Marc did not understand. A single word. And everything changed.
All the visitors rose to their feet as two bodyguards and the hospital director came into view. Then a very old man shuffled into the room. His hair was hidden beneath a black turban that matched his silk robes. His wispy beard was snow white. His bones appeared fragile as bird’s wings. One arthritic hand held a polished cane, the other rested upon Jaffar’s outstretched arm.