by Davis Bunn
Inside were a set of carpenter’s tools.
Marc released the man and backed away. The young man bounded to his feet and started waving his arms in Marc’s face.
The gates to the mosque’s outer wall opened. The black-shirted procession began emerging. The singing and the tambourines and the reed instruments washed over them. Marc glanced over to where Josh and one of his men stood on the back of a donkey cart, frowning at the scene. Clearly they were thinking the same thing as he. This would be the perfect time for an attack.
Marc took hold of the truck’s rear post and started to lower himself to the ground.
Then he saw the other car.
“Josh!” Marc yelled, “Hamid!”
But the volume of noise was astonishing. The three men from the truck still yelled at them. And the noise of the procession continued to mount. Not to mention the chorus of a hundred other drivers and passengers returning to their cars and offering their own shrill opinions of the whole charade.
Marc leaped down from the truck and swiped Hamid’s shoulder. The major turned angrily, ready to cuff whoever dared touch him. Marc was already running.
Marc yelled, “Trouble!”
Traffic had backed up several hundred yards. The main road leading into the square was in gridlock.
Only there was one car, too far back to get anywhere near the station and the mosque, which was desperate to get away.
Marc raced through the frozen traffic. Hamid ran with him. And Josh.
The car must have seen them. Because its maneuvering grew desperate. The car banged hard against the vehicle in front, pushing it into the truck next in line. Then it slammed into reverse.
Marc heard the squeal of tires and saw smoke rising as the fleeing car hammered the vehicle behind.
People began emerging from nearby cars and shouting at the driver.
The car rammed its way out of the congestion and mounted the sidewalk. The engine roared its warning, clearing away patrons at an outdoor cafe. The car careened through the pedestrians, sending shopping bags and cafe tables and hookahs flying.
Marc yelled as loud as he could for the people to get down, down. Trainee police from the encampment gaped at him and Hamid and Josh. Hamid shouted something. The police stepped aside.
The car rounded a corner and roared down an alley. Hamid caught up with Marc as they passed the cafe patrons pulling themselves from the pavement. Hamid held a gun over his head. As did Marc. And Josh, who rushed up to Marc’s other side.
They rounded the corner to see the car’s rear end fishtailing its way through the narrow space, sparks flying as it hit structures on either side. The three men stood shoulder to shoulder. Hamid yelled, “Tires! Tires!”
They fired in unison. The car’s left rear tire slumped. More sparks flew. As the car neared the alley’s opposite end, bullets took out the rear windscreen.
Then the alley was filled with fire, a blast, and a hail of metal rain.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
T he four Tikriti families arrived at the hospital soon after all the other reunions were completed. The medical staff knew who they were, of course. Two of the nurses and a janitor made themselves scarce the instant they arrived. One of Hamid’s men looked like he wanted to do the same. Sameh did not speak. There was nothing he could do about the situation. A change in the regime did not erase memories or bring back loved ones. Leyla, bless her, responded with her customary warmth. She brought the adults tea, filled the empty silences with quiet conversation, and personally supervised the reunions.
Sameh held the most important family for last. This man had occupied a lesser position on Saddam’s inner council for several years. He had been privy to much, and blind to even more. He wore his shame like a cloak. His name was Kazim.
Sameh waited until Leyla had settled the glass of tea before the man to say, “You were approached during America’s attempts to bring the Tikriti into peace talks.”
The gentleman’s hand shook slightly as he lifted the tea. “I was.”
“How are your connections now?”
“The Americans call when they want something. I have never had the courage to ask them for anything. But for you…”
“I was not speaking,” Sameh said, “of the Americans.”
During the Iraq troop surge, some of the heaviest fighting took place in the Triangle of Death. The U.S. generals assaulted the terrorists’ strongholds with overwhelming force, tactics the Americans referred to as “shock and awe.” Then they sought out potential allies within the local community, offering these elders safety and support in rebuilding, so long as they turned their backs on the insurgents. The Tikriti seated across from Sameh had been one of the first to respond.
Kazim took a careful look around the room before replying, his voice low, “The extremists have condemned me to death.”
“They also stole your child, no?”
“The enemy who committed this crime is unknown to me. But the hand who pulled the strings, yes. That is my thought.”
Sameh was feeling his way forward here. “Did the kidnappers issue a ransom demand?”
Kazim took his time settling the tea glass back in the saucer. “Who is this asking me such questions? And for what purpose?”
His wife was seated a few feet away, rocking their three-year-old daughter in her lap. Most of the reunions had followed a similar pattern. The children wailed and clung to their parents. Some even struck at them for leaving them to be captured. When the pent-up anxiety was released, however, the children fell asleep. Their little fists clung to the parent holding them. Nothing disturbed their desperate slumber, not even the next family’s noisy reunion.
His wife leaned forward and poked at her husband. “What kind of question is that? You must address with respect this honored gentleman who saved our child, and you must answer him.”
“Your husband asks a valid question,” Sameh calmed her. “We are searching for three missing Americans and a missing Iraqi. A Shia youth.”
Kazim said, “Again I must ask, who is this ‘we’?”
“That is why I speak with you now. The answer is, I do not know. It appears that some Americans would prefer to see them stay lost. While others seek them. And the same is true with the Iraqi community.”
“And the government?”
“The family is not without influence. The father is one of the Grand Imam’s largest supporters. But the government refuses to assist. They say the son has eloped. With an American nurse.”
“Is this possible?”
“We have evidence that it is not.” Sameh had the distinct impression that nothing he said surprised the Tikriti. “But few seem to care.”
“So they seek to shame the imam and his followers.”
“Perhaps.” Sameh grew increasingly certain the man knew more than he was saying. “And yet there are questions without answers. Such as, why have the kidnappers not asked for ransom? And why are there those among both governments who pretend nothing has happened?”
A remnant of the man’s former presence returned. Kazim’s hands ended their nervous clasping and unclasping in his lap. The eyes became hooded. Sameh shivered. Oh yes. The man knew.
Kazim asked, “And why approach me with such questions?”
“Another of this group, an ally to the new regime, he too had a child taken.”
“His name?”
“I cannot say, any more than I would ever disclose yours.”
Kazim nodded his understanding. Otherwise the man had gone completely still. As though he was seated back at the council table, with the madman Saddam at its head. Where any gesture or word or even glance could be reason enough for his demise.
Sameh went on, “This gentleman who lost a child as you did, he never received a ransom request. And when he approached the government for assistance, they turned deaf. And when his child was returned, they acted as though it had never been taken.”
Kazim did a curious thing. He turned in his chai
r and looked at his wife. The woman responded with a slow nod, her face full of the dread wisdom that comes from residing close to deadly power. “You should tell Sayyid el-Jacobi all you can.”
“Even at risk to our family?”
“You will tell him.”
Kazim turned back and said, “A ransom was demanded.”
Sameh guessed, “But it had nothing to do with money.”
“Correct. There is to be a gathering of Tikriti elders. We Sunnis are split over this new regime. Some wish to ally themselves with the Shias and create a government of unity.”
“The Alliance, yes, I have heard of this. You back them?”
“I see the nation’s wounds. I wish to see us heal and move forward.”
“And the thieves who stole your child?”
“They demanded I vote otherwise.”
Sameh leaned back in his seat. “But how could this be tied to the disappearance of three Americans and one-”
The blast was near enough for the explosion to shake the windows. The entrance doors rocked inwards. Alarm flashed across every face.
The hospital’s children’s wing went completely silent. The doctors and nurses froze where they were and waited. Sameh had seen it happen before, during other visits to medical facilities. The doctors and nurses listened for the alarm, for the sirens. And the telephones. As the police operators learned of the extent of casualties, they phoned the hospitals. If the phones in this division rang, it meant children had been injured. Everyone in the room knew this. It was a part of Iraqi life. They waited together, and no one breathed.
The phones remained silent. Murmurs of astonishment began to fill the room.
The woman seated behind Kazim clutched her daughter more tightly and said, “We should leave this place.”
The man rose to his feet and said to Sameh, “I will see what I can learn.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
A s they finished with the final Tikriti family, Sameh received a call from Hassan’s office asking him to meet him at the courthouse. The woman’s voice carried a sense of dramatic urgency, reflecting years of pressing people to do what Hassan wanted, and do so immediately.
Leyla drove Sameh from the hospital to the courthouse. This was a practice they had started during their earliest days as lawyer and assistant. Sameh could not look back at that time without recalling the pain that had brought them together professionally. Leyla, the elfin sprite whose laughter had brightened their world for years, had withdrawn into the dark garb and mood of widowhood. Miriam had suggested they bring Leyla into the world her husband had formerly occupied. Give her the sense of carrying on where her husband had left off. Bringing justice and honesty to those in their most vulnerable hour.
Leyla glanced over at him. She must have sensed the reason behind his mood, for she asked, “Do you ever think back on our first days working together?”
“Every time you sit behind the wheel,” Sameh replied.
“You taught me to drive,” Leyla said. “You thought it would give you more time to think.”
“Instead, it impelled me to pray harder.” Sameh pointed ahead. “Watch out for the bus.”
Normally such suggestions only led to argument. This time, though, Leyla simply asked, “Has it ever done any good to say such things to me?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
She was forced to stop, hemmed in on all sides by immobile traffic. She tried to create a gap between a truck and a derelict van, and was rewarded with blaring horns and words shouted through open windows. Normal Iraqi etiquette was forgotten the instant drivers sat behind the wheel. She said, “I know what you want to ask me.”
Sameh kept his gaze on the car sweltering in front of them.
“You want to know if Bisan and I would leave Iraq without you. And take Miriam to America with us.”
Sameh felt his throat close up from more than heat and exhaust.
“Miriam will not leave Baghdad unless you come with her,” Leyla said. “No amount of argument will change her mind. It will only hurt her. I beg you not to even try.”
Sameh nodded at her wisdom. “And you?”
“For Bisan, I would do it. For her life. For her future.” Leyla wiped her cheek with a shaky hand. “Though I will miss you both with every breath. And it will break Miriam’s heart. And Bisan’s.”
Sameh wanted to say, and his as well. But speech was impossible just then. Instead, he reached over and took her hand. But when he felt the warm wetness on her fingertips, his constricted heart felt like it cracked wide open.
It was almost a relief when his phone rang. Sameh released his grip in order to pull it from his jacket. He read the number and coughed hard enough to force air into his lungs. “I must take this. It is Duboe from the embassy.”
“Come with us,” Leyla said, her voice quavering with the effort it required to plead. “For Bisan.”
Sameh opened the phone and said, “Regretfully, I cannot come to the embassy now.”
Barry Duboe asked, “But you’re interested in accepting the ambassador’s offer of green cards?”
Sameh glanced at Leyla and said, “Very much.”
“Okay, you’ve got a stay of execution. Did you hear about what your boys have been up to?”
The realization flashed in the wavering heat. “Not the explosion we just heard.”
“Right the first time.”
Leyla looked over in alarm. “Marc was at the blast? Is he all right?”
Sameh lifted his hand. Wait. “What happened?”
“The bombers were targeting that mosque by the big market. What’s it called?”
“El Shorjeh.”
Leyla exclaimed, “Tell me Marc is all right!”
Barry Duboe must have heard her, for he said, “All the white hats walked away safe and sound.”
When Sameh passed on the news, Leyla removed her hands from the steering wheel and clasped them together in prayer. He rested his hand on her shoulder as he said into the phone, “Tell me what happened.”
“Your guy and his mates were apparently camped out on the square. They spotted the incoming bombers and diverted them to an alley. How exactly, I’ve not a clue. But they did. The blast took out all the windows for blocks, maybe caused some structural damage to the nearest buildings. But only the bombers were killed.”
Sameh murmured his thanks to the Almighty. “Where are they now?”
“They got scratched up by flying debris. A doctor at the police camp across from the mosque is giving them a head-to-toe. Major Lahm is the man of the hour. And he has been talking to the press about what a great job the Americans did. How they are Iraq’s great friends. How we will be allies for a thousand years. Blah, blah. He hasn’t named our guy. But everybody at the embassy knows, especially Boswell. Which means nobody dares move against you or Marc. We’ve spent years trying to build the sort of bridges your man has created in a few days.”
“So Lahm has publicly described an unnamed American as an honored friend of all the Iraqi people?”
“Matter of fact, I’ve got the transcript right here. The translator had trouble with one word. Lugal. He wrote it down, must have thought it was important.”
“Lugal is not Arabic. It is Sumerian.”
Leyla looked at him in astonishment. “Someone called Marc a lugal? Who?”
“Hamid.”
“The policeman called Marc a lugal?”
“It is on the radio.”
Duboe said in Sameh’s ear, “Who are you talking with?”
“Leyla, my niece. She is driving me to court.”
“Way that lady drives, she ought to aim for the nearest hospital. Tell me why this lugal thing is important.”
“It comes from Gilgamesh. Our earliest story. It means a champion. A hero. Like a lion.” Actually, it meant more than that. A lugal could be trusted with the fate of the nation. Educated Iraqis who heard this would be astonished. Sameh could not recall an American ever being described in such a mann
er.
“Whatever,” Duboe said. “The thing is, Lahm said it first. Then he met with the justice minister. Now the minister is echoing the major. They’re all talking about you as well. By name. How you are the glue that’s binding all this together, making it such a success. So now everybody at the embassy is treading lightly. I just met with the ambassador. Marc has bought you a couple more days.” Duboe’s next words were lost to a rush of sound. He shouted, “Hang on a second. There’s an incoming chopper.”
When the noise died, Sameh asked, “You are outside?”
“Well, duh. You think I would be calling you around listening ears? I’ve been given some space to maneuver. Not much, but a little. If you can come up with something, maybe I can help.”
Sameh thanked him and put away the phone. Leyla drove into the courthouse parking lot, showed their IDs, tolerated the vehicle inspection, then asked, “Can we trust this Duboe?”
“That,” Sameh replied, “is something for our lugal to decide.”
Chapter Thirty
S ameh noticed the change before he even stepped into the courthouse. On the final day of Ramadan, even less work than normal was being accomplished. Which made Hassan’s urgent request for a courthouse meeting rather extraordinary.
The feast officially began after the new moon was sighted. The most conservative believers fasted through the final night as well, then began the celebrations at dawn. But the majority of Muslims started in at sundown. As expected, Sameh found the courthouse filled with an air of jubilant relief, a blissful abandonment of the disagreeable thirst and hunger that had dominated life for four long weeks.
Sameh himself generally tried to be home well before sundown on Eid ul-Fitr. Extremists occasionally treated the festival as a reason to attack Christians and the few remaining Iraqi Jews. Which was why, as he and Leyla entered the foyer, he promised, “I will not stay a moment longer than necessary.”
One of Hassan’s bodyguards was stationed in the front foyer. As he started to approach Sameh and Leyla, the entire room’s focus shifted. People halted their conversations and moved toward Sameh. This much was customary. He had, after all, been officiating cases in these chambers for over a quarter of a century. But nothing before had ever resembled today’s reception. Gone was the traditional humor, the friendly inclusion, the soft welcome of old acquaintances. Instead, Sameh faced a new formality. He was greeted with hands upon hearts, the murmurs of respect, the formal words that carried centuries of significance. They greeted Sameh as they would a caliph.
