There was no obvious reason why hearing the imam speak that holy name should cause shivers to race through Sameh’s body. But he could not deny the effect, not when his voice shook as he translated.
Only Marc seemed unaffected. He asked through Sameh, “Is there anything else you think we should know?”
The pair exchanged glances, then the stockier young man said, “We have been warned.”
“When was this?”
“The night before last. They found us at a cafe where we often go. They said we must not speak of anything. They mentioned you, the American who asks the wrong questions. We said we did not know you, or anything of value. They said that was the correct answer, the only one which would save us from joining those who are lost.”
Jaffar nodded slowly. “My chief aide has received a similar warning.”
Marc looked from the young men to Jaffar and back. “Describe the ones who warned you.”
“Five of them,” the slender man replied. “Bearded. They spoke Arabic with a Farsi accent.”
“Six accosted my aide,” Jaffar said. “He is certain they were all Iranian.”
Marc asked, “When was this?”
“Today. While I was with my father, visiting the hospital.” Jaffar’s smile held no humor whatsoever. “They vowed their next attack would not fail.”
There was a long silence. Then Sameh asked the question for them all. “What do we do now?”
Marc returned to an inspection of the table between his hands. He finally said, “I have an idea.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
T hey left the el-Waziri compound and drove straight to Sameh’s home. Along the way, Marc outlined what both Sameh and Hamid declared was as solid a plan as they could imagine.
Upon their arrival, Sameh placed two calls, one to Hassan and another to the Tikriti elder whose son had been returned. Both men had promised to look into a matter raised by Marc’s plan. Both also promised to call Sameh back as soon as possible. But Sameh had a lifetime’s experience with Iraqis and their unfulfilled promises. Which meant he was utterly amazed when both men called within the hour.
After Sameh had passed on the two men’s reports, Marc said he needed to phone Ambassador Walton. He stepped into the inner courtyard and talked for some time, pacing across the sunlit tiles as he spoke. Then he reentered the living room, seated himself, declined tea, and enclosed himself in a silence so complete it stifled even the irrepressible Bisan. Marc remained encased within his silent armor until his phone rang. He listened for a few moments, then closed off and started issuing instructions.
In the process, Marc Royce underwent a remarkable change. Gone was the diffident newcomer, the careful young man feeling his way. In his place was a general. Handing out orders and setting plans in motion, speaking in a voice that did not need volume to create the necessary whirlwind of action.
They paused for a meal that included Hamid Lahm and the two men from his team on duty outside the home. As he ate, Marc remained quiet, distant, focused on something only he could see.
As they were preparing to depart, Sameh whispered to Hamid Lahm, “Do you see the difference in Marc?”
“Of course.” Hamid Lahm showed a warrior’s gaze, hard as flint. “Our friend is taking aim.”
– – The sun was setting over Baghdad as they journeyed to the Green Zone. Sameh’s bodyguards followed the police vehicle as it forged through the traffic. Sameh was no longer concerned about being identified with the Americans. He had been forced to declare himself. They had attacked his family and his home. They knew all about him. These were facts.
The question was, what did he do now? Emigrate to America? Or stay? The dilemma robbed him of any vestiges of peace. Baghdad was more than simply his home. His family’s name was irrevocably woven into the city’s fabric. Sameh watched Hamid Lahm’s driver slow for the first checkpoint and wondered if this was how Abraham had felt. Another Iraqi, bound to his land and his heritage, invited by his God to become an exile.
As Major Lahm rose from the car and returned the Iraqi guard’s salute, Sameh suddenly realized he had not asked God what he should do. It shamed him, this moment of truth. He lived according to his faith. More recently he had been surrounded by miracles and the divine presence. Yet he had failed to ask his Maker which direction he should take. Faced with the impossible choice, he had stood alone. And bewildered.
As Lahm slid back into the car, Sameh shut his eyes. It did not take long. Nor did he have any sense of an answer. But when he lifted his head, he knew a substantial transition had been made. He no longer felt alone.
– – The Green Zone had formerly been the city’s riverside district. The bends and curves of the river formed a natural barrier around three sides. The main Green Zone entry road was six lanes, illuminated by towering batteries of arc lamps that defied the sunset. The road weaved its way around three sets of concrete barriers, each curve guarded by tanks.
Sameh had entered the Green Zone on five previous occasions, though none of them recent. Each time he had parked his Peugeot at the zone’s southeastern border, endured hours of inspection, then walked over a mile to the embassy compound.
This time was very different indeed.
They were waved through the third barrier and discovered an army Jeep waiting for them. An American MP saluted and reported that the ambassador sent his greetings. Hamid Lahm actually smiled.
The embassy compound occupied a part of what had formerly been called the Presidential Guest Palaces. This had been Saddam’s garden paradise, with over three dozen palaces assigned to his cabinet, family, and cronies. Some of Saddam’s guests had resided there for twenty years.
The narrow lane wended its way around palms and formal gardens and large parklands. The grounds were still very neat, but the Americans had managed to turn the Green Zone into something that was functional, austere, military. The embassy was as Sameh recalled, a grandiose structure fronted by private guards and military vehicles and flags. A pair of helicopters passed overhead as Sameh opened his door.
After a lengthy signing-in and inspection process, Major Lahm indicated a man waiting nervously by the embassy entrance. “You know him?”
Marc gave him a single glance. “I’ve seen him. We weren’t introduced.”
“Is he important?”
“He thinks he is. He’s chief aide to Jordan Boswell, the ambassador’s second-in-command. Boswell wants to see me fail. The only other time I’ve been here, that guy enjoyed watching his boss roast me.”
Lahm observed, “He is not enjoying himself so much now.”
“No.”
Boswell’s assistant did a tight little two-step as Marc, Lahm, and Sameh crossed the security perimeter. He pointed to Major Lahm and demanded, “Who is he?”
“With me,” Marc replied.
“The ambassador didn’t say anything-”
“Where is the document I requested?” When the aide started to protest, Marc cut him off with, “I told Duboe when we set this up. Either I get the document or we’re out of here.”
The aide glared, but clearly he found something in Marc’s face that stifled any further protest. “Wait here.”
Eventually, Boswell’s aide reappeared, bearing the mottled look of one who had been blistered by an unheard exchange. He clutched typewritten sheets down by his side. He glared at them and handed Marc the papers. “We can go now?”
Marc remained where he was and studied the papers thoroughly. Finally he said, “Take me to your boss.”
The aide backed up a pace. “They are expecting you in the comm room.”
“We’ll get there. But first I have to see Boswell.”
“It’s eight o’clock at night.”
“I know what time it is. I also know Boswell is here. He wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Marc gestured with the hand holding the pages. “After you.”
Jordan Boswell was with the ambassador. Boswell stopped in mid-sentence when they all appeared in the ambassador’s doorway. “Why did you bring them here?”