Lion of Babylon

by Davis Bunn

  “You are the lawyer. The one who helped the children.”

  “This is important to you, yes? That I help the lost and the helpless.”

  Marc noticed the change. “What is it?”

  The young man glanced over, then said to Sameh, “This is the American, the one on the news, the one Imam Jaffar has spoken of?”

  Sameh said in English, “Let him go.”

  Marc did as Sameh said, but positioned himself between the young man and the alley’s mouth. “What’s going on?”

  Sameh replied, again in English, “This man has heard of us.”

  Marc looked the man over. “He was sent. For Alex. And the ladies. And the Iraqi, Taufiq.”

  The man was old enough to have survived his childhood and teenage years under Saddam. He knew how to mask his surprise well. Even so, Sameh was fairly certain hearing Marc speak those names had shocked him.

  Sameh asked, “You understand English?”

  The young man replied in Arabic. “A little, sayyid. Not well.”

  “Tell us your name.” When the man hesitated, Sameh told Marc, “Apologize for accosting this gentleman.”

  Marc reached out and touched where he had gripped the man’s arm. The man flinched away. Marc kept his hand outstretched in the empty air between them. He said carefully, clearly, “If you are a friend of Alex’s, we should be working together.”

  “Here is what I think happened,” Sameh said in English, very slowly, wanting Marc to hear as well. “You are a friend of the missing four. And more. You share their cause. You came hoping against hope. Just in case. Because here is where they were to gather.” Sameh saw the man hesitate, and added, “As one who seeks to restore the lost and give hope to desperate families, I beseech you. I come as a beggar seeking crumbs. And with every minute that passes, the risks our friends face…”

  “Enough,” the man said. He pointed toward the alley’s mouth. Marc stepped out of the way. The man glanced at both their faces a final time, then said simply, “Come.”

  – – They returned to the main thoroughfare. It was approaching eight o’clock at night, but the street was as jammed as at midday, perhaps worse. To their left, a broken water main had flooded the street and eaten away the pavement. Car horns kept up a constant protest as three lanes snaked into one. A pair of wild dogs snarled at the water’s edge. The man guiding them glanced over, then away, his worried expression illuminated by headlights.

  He led them down a side street that opened into a massive unguarded parking lot. The lot’s far end bordered the closest market to Sadr City. The crowds were thick and constant. Their guide led them to the left, away from the market’s entrance. He stood beside a pair of trucks and watched. In the distance were remnants of the barrier surrounding Sadr City. The American soldiers had ringed the entire slum in an eighteen-foot-high concrete wall during their surge. It had been immensely unpopular with Sadr City occupants, but in five days the number of suicide bombings in Baghdad had been reduced by two-thirds. The new government continued to pick away at the barrier, using the remnants as a goad to make the slum’s occupants behave.

  A few minutes passed. A family of four sidled up next to their guide and exchanged quiet greetings. Then the family slipped around the nearest truck. The youngest child, a girl of Bisan’s age, cast Sameh a glance as worried as their guide’s.

  The guide hissed, “We go.” He slipped around the first truck and vanished as swiftly as the family.

  Sameh wanted to tell Marc they should turn around. That his chest had tightened to the point where drawing breath actually hurt, as though there were no longer room for air and his heart and his fear. But Marc had already followed the guide. Sameh had the sudden notion that men like Marc were trained to make shadows their friends. Even when the shadows threatened to swallow them and snuff out their life. He would have said something, but his friend was out of sight.

  The two trucks were parked so that they formed a passageway. In the narrow space between the trucks and the brick wall was a set of stairs. Sameh knew this because he collided with a rusty handrail. He heard footsteps, and caught a reflection off the top of their guide’s headdress. Marc glanced upward at Sameh, his eyes glittering in the dim light. Sameh had no alternative but to follow.

  Their guide knocked on a metal door. The man who responded was so massive as to nearly block the light from within. The guide whispered something, and the guard stepped aside.

  Sameh knew another urge to turn and flee. Leave the American and this dank entryway and this guide who had refused to speak his name. He did not know how he found the courage to slip past the guard and enter.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  T he five guards inside the doorway seemed rather odd to Sameh. For one thing, they were dressed in a conventional fashion, more like business executives than sentries. They also were very respectful. And something else. Sameh waited in a line of nine people. A female guard checked the women in a discreetly curtained alcove. Marc was in front of him, their guide next. Sameh had time to scrutinize the scene. Even so, he was almost through the security screening before he realized what it was that was so different.

  The guards were at peace, even happy.

  They checked each person thoroughly. But they also revealed a quiet humor, speaking with the children as they completed the search. They smiled at families they recognized and spoke a welcome. As though they all belonged.

  When each person completed the inspection process, the guard standing by the inner doorway hit a switch and the electronic lock clicked. As the guests passed, the guard murmured softly. It was only when Sameh was walking through the inner portal that he made out the guard’s words. “Blessings and peace upon you and yours.”

  The words so startled Sameh, he stopped to look at the man, and only moved forward when the closing door pushed him in the back. He had just been given the standard Sabbath blessing. Among Christians. Spoken by a guard whose beard and dress suggested he was Shia.

  Their guide was more at ease now. He directed them to a second staircase, this one descending in a gentle curve. “We should hurry.”

  But Marc halted him. “Back there, you hadn’t come looking for Alex.”

  The guide looked at Marc, then at Sameh. He said in Arabic, “Your friend is police?”

  “Intelligence. Is he correct?”

  Marc said, “Alex and the women would know to come here. You went to the church looking for someone else.”

  The guide replied to Sameh, “We must have a place where newcomers can come and be monitored. This changes from week to week. How did you get the church address?”

  “Taufiq’s father found it on his son’s personal calendar.” Sameh wanted to ask, Newcomers to what? But the man had already turned and started down the stairs.

  Their destination was a cool breath from the past. The Ottomans had ruled Baghdad for centuries; precisely how long depended upon who was telling the tale. The sultans in Constantinople had appointed local rulers who had grown increasingly independent. The history of Iraq contained many tragedies wrought by despotic rulers. Saddam Hussein was far from the worst, only the most recent.

  The ruling caliphs had built interconnected underground chambers, peaked structures fashioned from rose-tinted brick and supported by iron columns sheathed in more brick. Nowadays they were used mostly as storage areas, for they were windowless and cool and easily protected.

  The stairs emptied into an antechamber, where two more guards manned yet another locked door. Once again the arrivals and the guards exchanged the traditional blessing. Sameh saw their guide shake a guard’s hand, the guard pat the young man’s back. Two friends joined by… what?

  The door was pulled open and they entered a different world.

  The brick-lined room was perhaps eighty paces wide and half again as long. The fluorescent lighting illuminated a large crowd. They were singing, some with hands lifted toward the ceiling. Marc turned and looked at him in astonishment, but Sameh was so bewil
dered he could not respond. The underground chamber was packed.

  But that was not the evening’s greatest surprise. Not even close.

  Their guide turned to Sameh and offered his hand. “The blessings and peace of Jesus upon you, Sameh el-Jacobi. I am Salim Abu Bakr.”

  Sameh took the young man’s hand, but found himself unable to respond.

  The man’s name was Sunni.

  Sameh had been led into a church. Past guards who were Shia. By a Sunni. In Baghdad.

  The young man seemed to find humor in Sameh’s silence. He smiled, then turned and offered his hand to Marc. He stumbled over the greeting in English, yet he did his best.

  Marc shook the man’s hand, fumbling at the words himself.

  The front of the hall contained a waist-high stage holding a lectern and several chairs. Sameh’s mind was a jumble of disconnected thoughts as Salim ushered them forward, down the central aisle, and into seats midway to the front. Sameh saw a few faces he vaguely recognized but could not place.

  Then Marc nudged him. “Check out the family at two o’clock.”

  Sameh scouted the crowd and was about to ask who Marc meant. Then the hymn ended, and as the congregation seated themselves, Sameh saw the couple.

  It was one of the Tikriti families. The mother held their infant son in her arms. The son Sameh had helped recover.

  Sameh was still trying to take this in when he realized Marc had left his seat and circled around the back of the room. He approached the stage from the left side. But his progress was halted by two more guards, whom Sameh had not seen until that moment. Marc lifted his open hands to show they were empty, the easy gesture of a man with a long understanding of risk and danger. The guards still did not let him pass.

  Marc pointed to the pastors seated behind the podium. He then reached into his pocket. Instantly the two guards gripped his arms.

  The Tikriti father hurried over. He spoke to the guards, gently prying away their hands. Marc spoke to him. The Iraqis shook their heads, then one said something. Marc frowned, but nodded. All the eyes in the chapel followed Marc’s progress back to his seat.

  The service was in Arabic yet followed a pattern more Western than any Sameh had observed in a Baghdad church. Marc waited until they stood for another song to mutter, “I just wanted to pass a note to the pastor requesting his help.”

  “What did our friend tell you?”

  Marc glanced at Sameh. “Here is only Jesus.”

  Sameh spotted a judge from the central Baghdad court. He stood next to a woman lawyer who handled family-related cases. Both were Shia. The prayer was lengthy, the sermon brief and to the point: Jesus offered the miracle of peace and transformation to all who came to him. From time to time Sameh leaned over and offered Marc a quick translation.

  Sameh also saw acquaintances from within the Christian community. As the singing began again after the message, Sameh found himself comparing this gathering to his usual Sabbath service. He was an elder in the church where his father and grandfathers had both served, and countless forefathers before them. His grandfather claimed that the family had attended the same church for over a thousand years. Sameh knew everyone in his church community. He knew their secrets. He had grown up with all but one of the priests. The Baghdad Christian community had endured the Saddam years together. Their faith and the clans were as integral a part of their lives as breathing. As their blood. As their children.

  And yet, they were insular by nature. Sameh had often spoken of this with those who cared to listen. They viewed the church almost like a private club. They had survived by going unnoticed. They taught their children to hide their faith. And thus their numbers stayed about the same, year after year.

  The priest asked everyone to join hands for the Lord’s Prayer. Sameh took Marc’s hand, then grasped the man’s hand on his other side. He glanced around the room, and saw a miracle. Sunni holding hands with Shia, Christian with Muslim. Praying aloud the words. As one.

  Suddenly he could not stop weeping. The men to either side, Marc and the stranger, released his hands so Sameh could cover his face. Both men placed a hand upon Sameh’s shoulders. American and Iraqi. Consoling him. Praying.

  Sameh wept for himself, for his family, for his nation. They had all endured so much. The divides of religion and tribe and history. All the wounds of his beloved land. They hid so much, even from themselves, for to speak of these things only invited despair and futile rage.

  And yet here and now, in this place, the impossible was happening. Sameh dragged in a ragged breath, struggling for control. Only then did he realize that the two men still gripped his shoulders. There with him and for him. Together.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  S ameh remained in his chair after the service ended. Marc drifted over to a quiet corner, away from the departing crowd. Sameh watched him place a phone call. Marc returned and said simply that he did not want Miriam and Leyla to worry. Sameh nodded his thanks. He knew he should say more. But just then his heart felt too full.

  Marc stood in the empty aisle not far from where Sameh was seated. Sameh thought he should rise as well, depart the underground chapel, move on to the next thing. But he could not leave behind what he had just witnessed. The wonder of it left him immobile. His normally agile mind felt robbed of its ability to shape a coherent thought.

  Footsteps brought someone down the central aisle. Sameh lifted his gaze to see the Tikriti father holding his son in his arms. He said simply, “Come with me.”

  Sameh rose and numbly shuffled up the aisle. The Tikriti walked around the altar and entered a door on the platform’s other side. Two of the pastors stood shoulder to shoulder, and beside them were two older women in brilliantly colored headscarves. The four of them rested their hands upon a couple who knelt on the stone floor. Sameh recognized the woman as a lawyer he had dealt with in court. The pastors joined in an amen, and the couple rose. Sameh kept his gaze downcast and murmured a Sabbath blessing, uncertain whether to even acknowledge that he knew the woman. But she obviously felt no such hesitation, for she touched the back of his hand as she passed and said, “I am glad you have joined us.”

  The pastors, though, were clearly troubled by their presence. One was Arab, the other obviously Western. But both shared the same look of wary concern. As did the two women.

  But the Tikriti stepped forward, his little son clinging to his neck. In a voice that filled the chamber, he announced, “These men are friends to all Iraqis. They carry with them the Spirit of peace.”

  No one spoke as the man and his son left the chamber. Sameh rubbed his face hard, determined not to lose control a second time in this day.

  When Sameh did not speak, Marc said, “We need your help.”

  “No.” Sameh had to clear his throat twice to continue. “No, I am sorry, my friend, but that is not why we are here. We came for one reason. We stay for another. After what I have just experienced, I find it hard to ask for anything more. Except perhaps your blessing.”

  “You have that,” the Arab pastor replied.

  “Tell me, please, what it is I have just seen.”

  The four watching them visibly relaxed. The Western pastor introduced himself as Jason Allerby, then asked in Arabic, “I take it your English is fluent?”

  “It is.” Sameh recognized the man’s accent. “You learned your Arabic in Cairo?”

  “My parents were missionaries there. You know the city?”

  “I did my law studies at Cairo University.”

  “I was raised in the slums beyond Ghiza.”

  “Then you are indeed a survivor.” The Ghiza slums were notorious as a haven for disease and radical Islam.

  The other pastor also switched to English and said, “First of all, we do not ever mention the word Christian. There are too many trappings attached to that word, too much history. For most Arab Muslims, Christianity represents the Crusades and Western colonization and oppression. Here and now, we come together in the name of Jesus. T
hat for us is everything.”

  Sameh reflected on what he had experienced during the Lord’s Prayer. He had not identified who had been standing next to him, or whose hand he had held. He did not know whether the man had been Sunni or Shia or Christian. And yet when he had wept, the man had offered comfort.

  Sameh said, “Everything.”

  “We do not seek to convert here,” the Western pastor said. “We look only to befriend. To illuminate and represent Jesus. Nothing more can be achieved through human efforts. The only way to transform an individual’s understanding is from within. Through the power of the Holy Spirit.”

  Sameh found his entire body moving in cadence to the words, as though rocked by unseen winds. “I did feel it. Tonight.”

  “Our meetings are mostly in small home churches. We only gather here once a month. We do so on an irregular basis, for safety. These home groups are led by people from the community. Trusted people.”

  Marc said, “I am trying to locate three missing Americans who led small groups.”

  The pastors did not respond.

  “Alex Baird, Hannah Brimsley, Claire Reeves,” Marc said. “They were involved with an outreach. Along with Taufiq el-Waziri.”

  The Western pastor frowned. “Who?”

  “Taufiq. A missing Iraqi.”

  The pastor glanced at his associate, who hesitated, then shook his head and replied, “I do not know this name.”

  One of the women asked in Arabic, “This is el-Waziri, the merchant family?”

  “The same.” Sameh described the young man. When all four shook their heads, he looked at Marc. “I don’t understand.”

  The Western pastor said, “Hannah Brimsley led a women’s group in the Green Zone. She and I met at a regional conference in Jerusalem. She brought in Alex and Claire.”

  The other woman spoke in heavily accented English, “You know these people?”

  “I have never met any of them,” Sameh replied.

  “When I hold the hands of these three and pray, I feel the Spirit.” She held up two gnarled hands. “The power, it rushes over me.”