by Davis Bunn
“I and the child’s parents offer our deepest thanks.”
Sameh bowed to Omar. He shook hands with the other petitioners, accepting their best wishes in finding the child. He walked down the long hall to the central file office. Behind the counter, file clerks clustered about the few functioning computers and avoided even glancing toward anyone seeking help.
The office’s lobby area was filled with people long used to waiting on bureaucracy. They formed a sort of club, bound together by grim humor. People slipped out for a smoke, supposedly forbidden during Ramadan, and returned. There was humor about that. Even after twenty-three days of daylight fasting, still the banter continued. Sameh was greeted as a member in good standing. A space was made for him on one of the hard wooden benches lining the walls. Sameh asked how long the wait was. Even this was cause for laughter. Days, a lawyer replied. Weeks, another responded. The old man seated next to Sameh said he had been there since the previous Ramadan.
But this day, Sameh was fated not to wait at all.
– – A few moments after Sameh settled himself, two men stepped into the room. Instantly the lobby’s atmosphere tensed. Like all bodyguards to Baghdad’s power elite, the pair wore dark suits and light-colored shirts and no ties. But these two also had closely trimmed beards. Which meant they guarded a religious official. All talk on both sides of the counter ceased.
The vizier, the personal aide to the Grand Imam, entered behind them. Respectful murmurs arose, hushed greetings. The vizier looked thoroughly displeased to be here. Which was hardly a surprise. During Ramadan, such officials rarely took on anything other than the most important religious duties. For the vizier to personally come to the courthouse indicated a most serious matter.
The bodyguards pointed in Sameh’s direction. The vizier’s features twisted in bitter lines. “You are the lawyer el-Jacobi?”
The use of surnames was relatively new to Arab culture. After the First World War, Ataturk had ordered it in his drive to westernize the Turks. Over the last century most Arabs had reluctantly adopted the practice, taking the name of their family’s home village or a trade or the name of one of the Prophet’s descendants. Sameh’s grandfather had adopted the first name of a famous forebear, Jacobi, a powerful minister during the Ottoman Empire. Sameh bore his surname with pride.
Before Sameh could respond, a fourth man entered. This time everyone rose to their feet. Their greetings were both grave and loud. Jaffar was the Grand Imam’s son, the heir apparent, and a recognized imam in his own right.
The word imam meant “one who stood before others.” An imam was generally recognized as both a scholar and religious leader. The Imam Jaffar spent a few minutes circulating among the waiting group, greeting each in turn, including the clerks who now clustered by the front counter. But his gaze repeatedly returned to Sameh.
Sameh knew Jaffar’s father, the religious leader of Iraq’s Shia population, which was the majority of Iraq’s Muslim community. The Shia formed a majority only in Iraq, Iran, and Bahrain. In the rest of the world, they were not just a minority, but persecuted. Saddam Hussein’s regime had been Sunni by heritage. The Shia under Saddam had suffered immensely, along with the Christians.
Jaffar’s father was part of an august Persian dynasty that traced its heritage back to the Prophet. Unlike many of the current generation of Shia scholars, Jaffar considered himself utterly Arab, endearing him to the local populace. Jaffar was also fluent in Farsi, the language of Iran, out of respect to his father and the family dynasty. This had forged alliances among the conservatives.
Sameh had never met the man before. But Sameh held great hopes for his country under Jaffar’s religious guidance. The father was ailing and not expected to live long. Sameh would never have prayed for a man’s demise. But he looked forward to the day Jaffar became leader of the Shia community.
Those sentiments were not shared by the father’s vizier. Sameh had never met this man either, but his first encounter confirmed everything he had heard. The vizier directed the same hostility toward Jaffar as he aimed at Sameh.
Jaffar had made no attempt to hide his plans to institute changes as soon as he officially became Iraq’s chief cleric. And the first change would be to retire the vizier.
The vizier controlled access to the Grand Imam and held enormous power. Jaffar never spoke of what he thought of the vizier. He did not need to. Everyone knew the vizier’s days were numbered.
Jaffar now approached Sameh with his hand upon his heart, a gesture of deep respect. “Sayyid.”
Even the vizier was surprised by this manner of address. Sameh himself was staggered. Sayyid was used by devout Muslims to denote a distinguished superior. It was ironic for Jaffar to address Sameh in this manner, as sayyid was the term most often used to describe Jaffar himself. What was more, Sameh was known throughout Baghdad as a devout Christian. Yet the imam addressed him as he would another religious leader. Throughout the room, eyes went round.
“Sayyid,” Jaffar repeated, shaking Sameh’s hand. “A matter of great import has arisen.”
“How might I be of service to the honored teacher?”
Jaffar gestured toward the door. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to accompany me?”
Sameh was too skilled a negotiator to let such an opportunity slip by. He grimaced with regret and raised his voice. “Unfortunately, honored sir, I also have a matter that cannot wait. A child has been kidnapped. The information I seek could be of crucial importance. Both for the child and his family.”
Jaffar’s eyes glimmered with understanding. He turned to the others and said, “Good sirs, I am in great need of this man’s services. Would you grant me a Ramadan boon and allow him the first place in line?”
From that point, the inquiry took on a dreamlike ease. Sameh approached the counter, where eight file clerks now waited to serve him with an eagerness bordering on panic.
Sameh made his request and presented them with a photocopied page of the gardener’s passport. The eight clerks all sprang into action. The other lawyers gaped as two clerks actually ran for files stacked in another room. In all his years, Sameh had never before seen a clerk run. He turned to the cleric. “Might I ask you to return with me next week?”
Through the laughter, Jaffar replied, “Unfortunately, I am expected to host a small dinner.”
This was good for more laughter. The twenty-eighth day of Ramadan was marked by Eid ul-Fitr, the year’s most important feast.
The room went silent once more as the chief clerk returned. His voice was edged with genuine regret as he said, “Your gardener was indeed a felon released by Saddam.”
“His crime?”
“Kidnapping. Extortion.” The clerk looked pained. “Murder.”
Sameh might have felt a real sense of triumph had it not been for the anguish this news would cause the family. “Might I have a copy of his records? And his fingerprints?”
Such appeals normally meant yet another visit to the chief clerk. If the clerk deigned to grant him another tethkara from his coveted permit book, Sameh would normally have to wait a month and return three or four more times. Today, however, the copies were produced almost before the requests were formed.
Sameh accepted the file, stowed it in his battered briefcase, and said to the room at large, “I am breathless with gratitude.”
“Sayyid, if you please.” Jaffar stood in the doorway. “This matter is both urgent and pertains to those with whom I have no connection.”
A murmur passed through the room as Sameh departed. El Americani, the gathering said. The Americans. Sameh was known for having been a go-between in the past. And what was more important, he had survived.
Chapter Three
As the limo pulled away from his home, Marc asked, “What about my job?”
“Your job,” Walton scoffed. “My former chief aide, reduced to the role of bookkeeper.”
“I am a forensic accountant. I’m good at it.”
“You’re dying. A
nother year of this and they could measure you for your last suit. You’re an operative. The best. It’s the work you were born to do.”
“We’re not talking about what I want to talk about,” Marc replied.
“At my request, a White House official was in touch with your company’s director. You have been hired as a consultant to the federal government. For the duration. Your boss is thrilled. This is a foot in the door for his company.” Walton loaded his next words with scorn. “You should receive a hefty bonus.”
“Pretty good,” Marc conceded, “for a supposedly retired guy.”
Walton’s voice turned hoarse with the delicious flavor of conspiracy. “The current administration in Washington is fractured. Top to bottom. I’ve never seen such in-fighting. Worse than Nixon. It’s a virus that’s eaten into every department, including intel. They needed a voice they could trust. Someone who’s beyond politics. I advise what intel is fact, what is biased, and what is pure political lard.”
“Who watches the watcher?”
Walton actually smiled, an event as rare as snow on the moon. “Everyone.”
Marc could see the logic to their choice. Walton was childless and a widower. He had purposely remained above the political fray. His attitude was plainly stated and often repeated. The nation’s intelligence system should serve with the same detached commitment as the military. They should supply unvarnished intel regardless of party loyalties or their own personal ambition.
Marc said, “They couldn’t have found themselves a better man.”
That obviously surprised Walton. Even the driver glanced in the rearview mirror and gave Marc a terse nod. Which confirmed Marc’s assumption that the driver was not just a driver at all.
Walton asked, “Does this mean what’s past is past?”
Marc wanted to bite down on that hand. But he was going into danger, and the ambassador was his only link to the promised land. “Water under the bridge.”
Which earned him another nod from the driver.
Walton visibly relaxed. “I need a set of eyes and ears I can trust. I would tell you not to put yourself in harm’s way. But we both know that’s polite fiction for not getting anything done.” He passed a thick file over to Marc. “This is all I have been able to put together on Alex’s official remit. But my instincts tell me it won’t help you. Whatever happened to Alex, the cause lies beyond the Green Zone.”
“If it’s there, I’ll find it,” Marc replied. He owed that to Alex. And far more besides.
Walton leaned back in his corner and surveyed Marc. “Your trouble is, you’re far too handsome to do decent undercover work.”
Marc opened the file and pretended to read. They were back on familiar territory.
“And there’s your height,” Walton continued. “You’re tall enough to tower over most Arabs.”
“There are tall Iraqis.”
He might as well not have spoken. “Your coloring should help you fit in.” Walton knew Marc’s father was Cajun. The ambassador turned his attention back to the road. “Start working on a three-day growth.”
The ambassador’s limo took the exit for Baltimore’s BWI and headed for the private aviation terminal. Marc had been expecting a ride all the way to Andrews Air Force Base. Leaving from BWI meant this was a civilian flight. Given his destination was a war zone, Marc would have preferred something more official.
Walton must have seen where Marc’s thoughts were headed, for he said, “These are friends you can count on when the going gets tough.”
“What about allies on the ground?”
“There’s one man. Barry Duboe is a senior official at our embassy. He’ll meet you on arrival. You need to assume everyone else has an ulterior motive. It’s the only reason I can come up with for why I’m being fed so much conflicting information.”
As the limo pulled up by the departures gate, Walton clutched at Marc’s jacket. “What I would give to be young and fierce and armed with a cause worth fighting for.”
– – The jet that flew Marc to Baghdad was a kitted-out Gulfstream IV. The engines were whining up before Marc had his duffel out of the limo’s trunk. Marc passed through security and climbed the stairs. He received a terse welcome from the copilot, who stowed his bag and pointed him into the cabin before disappearing.
Marc was the only passenger. He took a seat on the plane’s left side so he could watch the ambassador’s limo pull away. He saw Walton lean forward and grin out of the side window. Marc tried to recall ever seeing the ambassador smile twice in one day. He took the grin as a portent of bad things to come.
Once they reached cruising altitude, the cockpit door opened and the senior pilot emerged. The man was rail thin, with chiseled features. One glance was enough to assure Marc the guy was a veteran of more than just hours above the clouds.
The pilot asked, “Mind if I take a load off?”
“Help yourself.”
“The name’s Carter Dawes.” He slipped into the seat opposite Marc, settling strong hands upon the burl table between them. “The galley’s right behind you. I assume you don’t need a smiling Betty to make you feel important.”
“A private ride to where I’m headed is about all the important I need,” Marc replied. “And a lot more than I deserve.”
“Hey, we’re just a taxi with wings, right?”
“Is this a Sterling Securities jet?” Sterling Securities was the largest of six private security firms operating inside Iraq. One of their senior executives held his position because Walton had personally pushed the company to take him on.
The pilot nodded slowly. “That is an excellent question.”
“I’m only asking because it seemed strange, taking off in a jet with no markings. Which would suggest CIA, only we left from a civilian airport. For Baghdad.”
Carter Dawes had a smile as tight as his gaze. “Like I said, it’s a good question.”
“Here’s another one,” Marc said. “Why are we having this conversation?”
Dawes liked that. “A man focused on the bottom line. Who knows. You might survive the Sandbox after all.”
“Thanks,” Marc said. “I guess.”
“Officially I’m based in Baltimore with the rest of my crew. But these days, most everybody is washing their clothes in Kuwait City. You follow?”
“Not yet,” Marc replied. “But I’m trying.”
“I’m here to tell you we can deliver whatever you need, anywhere in Iraq, in ninety minutes flat.”
“I’m instructed to go in, take a look around, and report back to home base.”
“Then why was I ordered to give you a rundown of our full service package?”
Marc replied slowly, “I have no idea.”
“We’ve got some serious firepower on offer here. Armored helicopter transports, troop carriers, even a pair of MIGs we got off a Russian general a while back. Only thing you’ll have to find for yourself is boots on the ground. Our remit is very specific on that score. No personnel other than pilots in free-fire zones, which is basically everywhere outside the Green Zone. We can take you to the dance, but you’ve got to find your partners somewhere else.”
Marc asked, “Ambassador Walton instructed you to tell me all this?”
“No names,” Carter Dawes replied. “No names, no fixed abode, no paper trail. All I’m saying, when it comes to transport and firepower, we can basically make your every dream come true. And somebody with serious clout has written you a blank check.”
The pilot slid a card across the table. On it were three lines. A radio frequency. A phone number with a Washington dialing code. And an email address. No name.
Carter rose from his seat and said, “Whatever, whenever.”
Chapter Four
The imam led Sameh to an empty alcove in the courthouse’s middle chamber. The vizier trailed behind, visibly smoldering. The bodyguards stationed themselves so the three would not be disturbed.
Jaffar, tall and burly and in his late thirties, wa
s dressed modestly in dark robes and a gray turban similar to the vizier. But whereas the vizier’s robes were silk, Jaffar wore only cotton. His chosen mode of attire was a subject of discussion throughout the Shiite community. In Islam, donations from the public to the clergy were direct, person to person. There was no hierarchy or formalized salary structure as in the Christian church. Jaffar’s simple clothing was also reflected in his home and his lifestyle. Almost everything he received he gave away. For a man of such power to dress as a plain scholar, with no adornment whatsoever, was extremely rare.
Jaffar held an aura of immense presence. Sameh knew him to be a noted Islamic scholar in his own right. He was also gaining a reputation as a mediator between the conservative clergy and a young population desperate for change. Such mediation was vehemently opposed by the government in Iran. Sameh respected him for this. Though he had never met the man before, he faced Jaffar ready to like him.
Clearly the vizier recognized this in Sameh. Either that, or he knew of Sameh’s own work as a mediator between communities. For Sameh, this was a natural outgrowth of his Christian faith. But as a member of the minority community in a Muslim land, Sameh never openly spoke of his beliefs. The risk was too great. Sameh’s family could suffer. Or worse.
“Forgive me for asking,” Jaffar began. “But as we have never had an opportunity to work together, I need to ensure that what I have heard is correct. You received your law degree from where?”
“Cairo University.” Considered the finest law school in the Middle East.
“Yet you also studied in the United States, is that not so?”
“The University of Maryland.” His studies in comparative legal systems at Cairo University had brought him to the attention of an Egyptian scholar working for the American embassy.
“No doubt this has charmed officials from across the great waters. Which is important, since you served as unofficial mediator over religious sites, is that not so?”
“Muslim sites,” the vizier snarled at Jaffar’s elbow. “ Our religious heritage. Not his.”
