Other than the bandage emerging from one arm of his short-sleeved shirt, Marc looked no worse for wear. In fact, he seemed the same as always. Calm, alert, watchful, silent. Sameh found it vaguely unsettling that his friend could endure the trauma of the past few days and still appear so, well, Arab.
Hamid Lahm spent the first part of their journey on the phone. As they entered Atifiya, the city’s oldest section, he shut his phone and announced, “One of the Palestinian kidnappers has become very talkative. He claims two of the children, Hassan el-Thahie’s and the Tikriti child, were stolen to order. They held on to the children because they were negotiating for a higher price.”
“It happens,” Sameh confirmed to Marc, and rubbed the sore point over his heart.
Marc asked, “Could he identify the buyers?”
“He claims never to have seen them, and he heard their voices only once on the phone. But he is certain they were Iranians.”
The el-Waziri company headquarters occupied what had undoubtedly been a minister’s palace. The walled enclave was lined in brick as pale as that of Babylon, which lay some seventy miles to the south. The inner compound had a graveled circular drive, fronting three buildings that had once housed formal meeting halls, stables, and the family residence. The courtyard was patrolled by vigilant guards. The missing young man’s father, Farouk el-Waziri, stood in the forecourt speaking with the Imam Jaffar and the vizier. The older cleric scowled in sullen rage at their arrival.
Marc asked, “What is the vizier doing here? ”
“He insists, he comes,” Hamid Lahm replied.
Sameh explained, “Jaffar’s father is old and weak. The vizier represents the strongest and most conservative of his followers. These days, the elderly imam’s orders go only so far.”
The courtyard’s atmosphere was one of respectful tension. Only the vizier displayed any emotion. That flame of hatred blazed as he watched Sameh and Marc emerge from the Land Cruiser.
Jaffar showed a lifetime’s experience at not acknowledging his father’s emissary. He draped the end of his robe about his arm before offering Sameh his hand. “Sayyid Sameh, an honor, as always. And our friend Marc. Welcome, welcome.”
In a few words, Sameh tried to convey what a rare tribute the imam had just paid Marc, publicly declaring him a friend. In response, Marc took the imam’s hand, met his gaze, and replied, “I am here to serve.”
The imam liked that enough to smile. “Ask our friend, how is his arm?”
Marc flexed it over his head. “Fine. It was nothing.”
“This is indeed good news.” Jaffar extended a hand toward the waiting elder. “Allow me to introduce my father’s friend and ally, Farouk el-Waziri.”
Marc shook the older man’s hand. “An honor, sir. I do wish we were meeting for another reason.”
The man looked unwell to Sameh, worse even than two days earlier. A liver spot on his cheek was the only point that held any color. His lips compressed in a grimace, the closest the man could come to a smile. “So do I also wish.”
Jaffar then turned to the vizier. “You will please report back to my father that the proper traditions have been observed.”
The vizier stiffened. “I wish to remain.”
“But you will not.”
Sameh observed the exchange as though from a great distance, removed from the crackling tension. The vizier hissed, “This is an outrage.”
“On the contrary, it is necessary. My friends seek an atmosphere of trust and openness.”
“I demand to remain!”
“The only demand here is that we do all we can to restore Taufiq and the others to their families.”
“Your father will hear of this!”
“My father already knows.” Jaffar dismissed his father’s vizier with a flutter of his robe as he turned to the others. “Shall we proceed?”
Farouk el-Waziri waited until they all had climbed the front steps. “What has just happened?”
Jaffar smiled at the sound of slamming doors and tires spewing gravel. “Something thirty years in the making.”
– – The two young men waiting in the office were clearly terrified. Sameh could well understand their fear. No doubt they were present because their parents had heard first from Farouk el-Waziri and then from the imam himself. They came because they had been ordered to do so. And now they found themselves in the company of a powerful imam, a police major, a lawyer, and a man introduced as an American agent. Of course they were frightened.
One young man was tall and reed-thin. His eyes shifted fearfully from one face to the next. The other was stocky in build and trying hard to hide his tremors. Jaffar led the conversation, quietly asking about their families as tea was served. Farouk el-Waziri introduced his own family. His wife and mother shared a look of bone-deep distress as they struggled to thank the imam for his concern. He responded with solemn dignity, wishing them peace and expressing hope that they would find a positive resolution to this tragedy. Sameh saw how the women desperately wanted to believe him, yet no doubt were finding it more difficult with every sleepless night.
They were ushered into the el-Waziri conference room, a high-ceilinged chamber that overlooked the main compound. The air was gratefully cool. Sameh felt the generator’s vibrations through his shoes. At Jaffar’s request, Farouk el-Waziri asked his family and staff to leave the room. Jaffar also directed his bodyguards to depart. Then it was just the seven of them. Jaffar, the two young men, Farouk el-Waziri, Hamid Lahm, Marc, and Sameh.
Sameh found himself holding his breath, wondering how things might unfold. Wondering if answers to the entangled mysteries might indeed be found in this room.
Jaffar turned to Marc, “All Iraq is in your debt.”
The imam showed an expert’s ability to time his words so they kept pace with Sameh’s translations. And for his part, Sameh knew to pitch his voice for Marc’s ears so as not to disrupt the conversation any further than necessary.
Jaffar went on, “You have helped restore forty-seven children to their families. You have protected a market and a mosque full of innocents from destruction. You have kept the celebration marking the end of Ramadan from being stained by the slaughter of innocents. You have saved my friend Sameh el-Jacobi and his family. You have saved my own life. My father, the Grand Imam, declares our indebtedness to you.”
The imam lifted his arms from the chair so his robe fell like wings. “All you need to do is express your wish. If it is within my ability to grant it, it is yours.”
Marc was ready. “I need these men to speak openly with me. They must be assured they are safe now, and will be safe in the future.”
“This I can grant.” Jaffar looked at the two men. “Whatever you say, whatever is revealed here, will go no further. There will be no retribution of any kind. No punishment, no recrimination, no blame.”
When Sameh finished translating, the imam turned to the police major. “I ask that you declare the same.”
Major Lahm nodded his agreement. “I do so agree.”
Jaffar turned to the senior el-Waziri. “Friend of my father, what you may hear could cause you further distress. If you wish, you may take your leave.”
“I choose to stay.”
“Then I must have your solemn oath that nothing said here will ever be mentioned outside these walls, beyond this hour.”
“How can I refuse, when my son’s life hangs in the balance?”
Jaffar looked at the young men and said, “I insist upon only one thing in return. That you give us the total truth. That you hold nothing back. This will save you. This and nothing else. Do you understand?”
The two stumbled over each other in their nervous haste to agree.
“Very well.” The imam nodded across the table to Marc. “You may proceed.”
Marc was seated at the head of the oval table, directly opposite Farouk el-Waziri. He swiveled his chair to face the two men on his left. “I want you to understand this. I only care about one thing. Alex Baird is my best friend. I want to bring him home. Along with the two missing women and this man’s son. All of them. Safe and alive.”