Lion of Babylon

by Davis Bunn

  “Sort of like the highway,” Marc said. “The different names for things around here. There are lessons beyond the visible.”

  “Precisely. Major Hamid Lahm is from a good Shia family. He is also a graduate of Baghdad University with a degree in criminology. He chose police work against his family’s wishes. For two reasons. First, because he liked the work. Second, because there were very few Shia policemen in the Saddam era, and Lahm wanted fairer treatment for his people.”

  “Shia, as opposed to what?”

  “Sunni. That discussion will need to wait for another time.”

  “Fine.”

  “For several years, Hamid Lahm was in charge of the police station near my home. I represented his cousin in a case involving a land dispute. We became friends. Lahm was promoted, and when war broke out, Lahm commanded a group similar to your SWAT teams.

  “Immediately after Saddam’s defeat, all policemen were sacked. But the first Iraqis who entered the new bureaucracy urged the Americans to reconsider. The police were always very far down the chain of Saddam’s power structure. And the Iraqis desperately needed order. So the Americans permitted the former police to reapply, but only when a respected member of society would vouch for them.”

  “You endorsed Major Lahm.”

  “That is correct. But afterwards I never heard from him. In Arab society, such a silence is very strange. A debt like this is always acknowledged. I feared the worse.”

  “He didn’t contact you because…”

  “He is ashamed,” Sameh replied. “A senior officer who before handled the highest-profile cases is now assigned to work far below his abilities. He guards prisoners. It is a disgrace, a symbol of our nation’s current state of disrepair. But Hamid would not want to tell me this. After all, I was the one who helped him. Etiquette demands that he show me only gratitude.”

  Marc looked through the glass wall, out to the bullpen. “There are two different kinds of men at work out there.”

  Once again, this American surprised him. Though Marc was the newcomer to Sameh’s world, he had noticed something Sameh himself had missed. The majority of desks were taken by typical prison guards-overweight, tense and bored, and not particularly intelligent. The other group was something else entirely. Tight looks and taut frames and sharply creased clothes. Men who took pride in their appearance and their uniforms, even here.

  Sameh said, “Major Lahm has obviously used new openings to give jobs to his old crew. At least now they have a way of feeding their families. They too no doubt share the major’s impossible mix of gratitude and shame.”

  Marc turned around and faced the empty desk. “With all that hanging over him, it’s no surprise he hasn’t contacted you.”

  – – The man was being held in the basement, which Major Lahm described as the prison’s secure wing. Lahm led them downstairs and into an interview chamber. A polished steel table was bolted to the floor. The chairs were plastic and new, the walls freshly painted. An air-conditioner pushed cool air through a pair of overhead vents. The lighting was new as well. Even so, Sameh stared at the painted metal door with its small wire-mesh window and could almost hear the screams emanating from years past. He did not want to be here. This was not his world.

  The door opened and the prisoner shuffled into the room, cuffed and wearing ankle chains. Guards firmly gripped each arm. Major Lahm waited until the prisoner was manacled to the table, then motioned the guards outside. He locked the door and stood so his head blocked the window. Lahm said in Arabic, “You are welcome to begin.”

  Sameh settled into the chair opposite the prisoner. Marc stationed himself beside Lahm. Sameh shifted his chair so the prisoner had the choice of either looking at him or at the major and the American. “My name is Sameh el-Jacobi. I am an attorney. By any chance have you heard of me?”

  The prisoner did not speak. His file said he was Palestinian. He was of medium height and build. His belly hung slightly over the cloth tie holding up canvas trousers. He was in his late forties, with blunt fingers and callused hands. His face was flat and nearly an even circle. His nose was little more than a nub, like he had been struck with a frying pan during his formative years. He met Sameh’s eyes with a blank gaze. Sameh could understand how the family had trusted him. He looked the part of a gardener.

  “We know you were employed by Hassan el-Thahie,” Sameh began. “Tomorrow he will come down and identify you as the gardener who vanished with his little son.”

  Lahm interrupted with, “Perhaps we should offer the child’s father the chance to ask you where his son is located. Chain you to this same table, lock the door, and-”

  “Please,” Sameh said. “Such discussion is unseemly. This man is well aware of what awaits him. A court case. Two, actually. One for the robbery that went wrong, another for the kidnapping of a child.”

  “After that you will be my guest for the rest of your life,” Major Lahm said. “I will personally see that you are assigned to this cellar. I will also make it known to the other prisoners that you stole a young child.”

  “But that is not going to happen,” Sameh said. “We have an offer for you. Tonight only. A very special proposition.”

  The Palestinian spoke for the first time. His tone was as flat as his face. “I am not surprised that an empty bubayet like you has floated to the top of this scum.”

  If Sameh had any doubt of the man’s heritage, it was gone now. A bubayet was a water flask. The expression was Palestinian, and it signified an individual who was utterly barren, a shell.

  Major Lahm said, “Please do me the service of refusing my associate’s offer.”

  “Our gardener is far too intelligent to allow that to happen,” Sameh said. He turned to Marc and continued in English, “Perhaps you should be the one to explain. I would imagine our guest speaks English. But I will translate to make sure he understands.”

  Marc made a process of seating himself beside Sameh. “We have a car upstairs. It will drive you to the airport. A plane is waiting there. Your very own private jet. You will be loaded inside. The pilot will confirm that he has been instructed to fly you to Beirut. He will show you a flight manifest.”

  The Palestinian’s impassive expression was momentarily fractured by the prospect of freedom. His gaze flickered back and forth between the three of them. “This is true?”

  Major Lahm lifted his hands. “I cannot believe I agreed to such nonsense.”

  Sameh said, “You already know what the price for this journey is. But my friend is now going to tell you anyway.” He said to Marc, “Finish your tale.”

  Marc said, “You are going to tell me what I need to know. Where the child is located, and every detail you can give us about the setup. We will leave you on the jet and drive to where you tell us. We will rescue the boy. As soon as we are successful, we will call and you will be flown to Beirut.” Marc leaned back in his chair. “Or, if you prefer, you can remain here in this place with the interesting name.”

  Sameh looked from the American to the prisoner and back again. It was impossible to say who had the harder expression.

  Major Lahm caught his attention. The police officer said, “Sameh, I ask that you join me in the hallway.”

  “We are not finished-”

  But the police officer was already rapping on the door. “Now.”

  Sameh feared Lahm had changed his mind. Obviously the prisoner did as well, because he lunged as far as his manacled wrists allowed and said, “I accept your offer.”

  The door creaked loudly on its hinges. Lahm motioned to Sameh. The prisoner shouted, “I will do as you say!”

  Lahm slammed the door shut behind them. The noise echoed up and down the stone hallway. “I have no right to be asking you for anything. I already owe you a debt that cannot be repaid. But ask I must.”

  Bewildered, Sameh replied, “I am your humble servant.”

  “My men and I are suffocating. We are as trapped as the prisoners.” The major leaned in close eno
ugh for Sameh to read the desperation in his gaze. “Take my team with you on this rescue mission.”

  “I have no right-”

  “If we are successful, no one will bother asking such questions. We will have an excuse to apply to the Justice Ministry for reassignment. If we fail, we deserve our fate.” He leaned in closer still. “But we will not fail.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  T hey circled the outskirts of Baghdad north toward the Kirkuk Highway. Which was easier said than done. This far from the city’s center, many of the roads were gravel. Road signs were a myth.

  The final light of day was gradually fading over the western horizon. Sameh called his wife to say he would be late and not to worry. He explained that officers would be bringing his car home, as he was traveling to his appointment in a Ministry car. Out here, the cellphone connection was so patchy he had to call his wife back four times to complete a three-minute conversation.

  Sameh and Marc rode in the lead vehicle, a Toyota Land Cruiser. Major Lahm sat in the front seat with his driver. The Palestinian had already left in another car, bound for the airport. The former gardener had offered them precise directions even before leaving the prison compound. As the Palestinian had put it, they could lie to him just as easily on the plane as they could in the prison. But behind the man’s bitterness, Sameh had detected a hint of panic. When Sameh had gently pressed, the Palestinian had confessed he feared his partners might be spurred by his absence to relocate.

  Sameh spent the ride relating to Marc all the Palestinian had told them, and filling in details from his own experience. “The Palestinians have been in Iraq for some time now. At the height of Saddam’s power, before the Gulf War, Saddam used his oil revenue to foment rebellion throughout the Arab world. Any regime that opposed Saddam came under threat.”

  Over his shoulder Major Lahm added, “Do not forget the role that Saddam’s Baath Party has played.”

  “Saddam Hussein’s political arm was known as the Baath Party. The Baathists had three primary aims,” Sameh explained. “A secular dictatorship, free of all religious influences. Arab socialism. And military expansion.”

  Major Lahm said, “Which means Saddam’s aims brought us a very special friend to the north.”

  Marc supplied, “The Soviets.”

  The policeman nodded. “Believe me when I tell you, if you have the Soviets for friends, you need no enemy.”

  Sameh went on, “When the Palestinians’ first Intifada failed and their soldiers were forced to flee the West Bank, Saddam made them welcome. They were given passports and jobs to which they never needed to show up, except to receive their paychecks.”

  “But now their easy life is over,” Major Lahm said, sounding very satisfied. “Thanks to the Americans.”

  “And they have become Iraq’s most enterprising criminals,” Sameh said.

  The Land Cruiser bounced over a ragged ledge, and the driver announced, “We have arrived.”

  – – One minute they had been surrounded by the poorest hovels and desert scrub. The next, they were back in a semblance of civilization. The street was paved in segments, which was what caused the bump. No warning sign, just a sudden end to the gravel and a ragged rise up to fresh asphalt. The same was true for the development they entered. Large houses loomed behind concrete walls topped with broken glass and barbed wire. Between the houses were stretches of rubble, refuse, and stubborn desert scrub.

  They halted in a borderland of night shadows. Ahead of them rose a line of shops, little street-side storefronts with flashing neon and music drifting through open doors. A couple of groceries, three cafes, a clothing store, a more dignified restaurant, electronics, and a hardware store. Guards patrolled the sidewalk and street in front of the shops. More guards patrolled around the neighboring homes.

  Lahm said, “It is a perfect situation. Big houses, guards, and neighbors who want to know nothing. Many Westerners working the oil fields live here. They come and they go at all hours. The fields work night and day. Perfect.”

  Marc asked, “Which one is it?”

  “Beyond the stores and the lights. Five houses past. It stands by itself.”

  “There’s a guard outside the gates.”

  “Look around you,” Lahm said. “There are guards everywhere.”

  “But this is a good sign, right? They wouldn’t keep a guard if they already had moved.”

  Sameh realized Marc was grinning. “You find this humorous?”

  “No. Sorry. It’s adrenaline.” He hesitated, then added, “And yes. It is funny. Two days ago I thought I was trapped forever in a life that fitted me about as well as a straitjacket.”

  “You could die out here and be buried in a dusty grave.”

  “Right. But I trust you both to watch my back.”

  Sameh found himself flooded with a fear so intense it almost choked him. “You Americans talk of trust like it is something you can pull from your wallet.”

  “Back when I worked in Washington, some of my superiors liked to take a new subordinate out and get them roaring drunk. They felt that was the best way to test a person’s core. The staffer’s inhibitions fell away, showing who he was inside. Angry, hurt, depressed, aggressive, problems at home, whatever. The problem was, I don’t drink. Which meant a lot of these guys would never trust me. But my boss, the man who sent me over, had a different idea. He said the best way to test a person was by studying how they faced fear. Both of you face fear honestly. I like that.”

  The major said in Arabic, “I thought you said he was a bookkeeper.”

  “He used to be an intelligence agent.”

  “Why the change?”

  “Perhaps you should ask him.”

  Instead, the major studied the American with an unblinking gaze.

  Finally Sameh asked Marc, “Are you afraid now?”

  “I’ve been scared since the jet’s wheels touched Iraqi soil.”

  Major Lahm nodded, then said, “There is a problem. We cannot attack in force without risking the lives of the children.”

  That was another item the Palestinian had mentioned. How there were other children. Which Sameh and Lahm had suspected all along. Marc stared out the front windshield at the street and the house and the night. “I have an idea.”

  As the American described his plan, Sameh realized an invisible line had been crossed. Somehow the young man seated beside him had done the impossible. A Shia police officer and a Christian attorney, two men who had survived by distrusting all strangers, had come to treat Marc as an ally.

  And something more.

  They considered him an equal.

  When Marc was finished, Major Lahm said, “I can send one of my own men to do this thing.”

  “You and your men are trained to attack. I’m trained to be invisible.”

  “But you are the newcomer. This is my world.”

  “Maybe so.” Marc shrugged. “But the night is the same everywhere.”

  – – Sameh returned from his errand feeling thoroughly ashamed. His face burned from the look the storekeeper had given him while handing over Sameh’s second package. He stepped into the alley where the vehicles were parked and handed Marc the paper sack the storekeeper had drawn from a locked closet. “I have never bought alcohol before.”

  Marc drew the pint bottle from the sack. “Did you get the other thing?”

  “This is the largest they had.” Sameh gave him a dark jacket.

  “It doesn’t have to fit perfectly,” Marc replied.

  One of Major Lahm’s men stood sentry at the alley’s entrance. The other eight men watched as Marc dropped the jacket into the dirty roadway. He used both feet to walk the jacket around. He then reached down, took a double handful of grime, and rubbed it all over his trousers and his shirt. Two more handfuls were applied to his face and hair. “Now the booze.”

  Marc opened the bottle and splashed it liberally over his jacket. More on his face and neck, some into his hair. The men watched him in openmo
uthed astonishment.

  Marc pointed to Major Lahm’s second-in-command. “Ask him if I can borrow his headgear.”

  Lahm ordered, “Give him your koufia.”

  The officer looked at Lahm, but did not object. He handed it over, then helped Marc tie the kerchief properly. Marc made careful adjustments so it appeared only barely in place, yet covered most of his face. The man stepped back and said, “My wife will smell this and accuse me of drinking during Ramadan.”

  Four of Lahm’s men slipped away. Two were instructed to halt any approach made by guards from neighboring houses. The other two, led by Major Lahm’s second-in-command, made their way toward the target house’s rear. The rest followed the major, Sameh, and Marc as they circled back several blocks to approach the house through a darkened lane. Lahm and his men were dressed in midnight blue trousers and T-shirts and Kevlar vests. Marc stank of booze. Sameh had never felt so out of place in his entire life.

  When the house came back into view, Lahm opened his cellphone and punched numbers. He whispered, listened, then said, “They are in place and awaiting my signal.”

  Marc said, “Tell them to hang tight. Let’s watch the guards for a while.”

  Lahm relayed the orders and settled in beside him. Sameh heard him ask the American, “Why you do not contact your military?”

  “They’d do exactly what I asked you not to. Go in cowboy style. Storm the house and risk harming the children.” Marc’s voice was a careful murmur, soft as the night breeze. If he felt any fear, Sameh could not detect it. “Besides, why should I phone the cavalry when I’ve got you guys?”

  The house showed the street a blank face. Now and then people strolled past, likely returning home from the stores and the cafes. This far from the city center, in an area so well guarded, life was relatively safe. The night was almost welcoming. The absence of streetlights meant the stars overhead shone brilliantly. There was no moon. A couple walked past the house arm in arm, their footsteps tapping the new pavement, their voices jarringly normal. They pretended not to see the guards patrolling the houses, who responded in kind.