Lion of Babylon (3 page)

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

A
s 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. Another 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

T
he 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, was 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.”

“They asked my help in understanding what was truly a holy shrine and what was the screeching of a local storefront cleric.” Sameh worked at keeping the worry from his voice. The vizier's glare was hot as a branding iron. “If I have made an error, good sirs—”

“Not at all. This has nothing to do with your fine efforts.” Jaffar gave no sign he even noticed the vizier's presence. “There is another problem. A very serious one. You know the el-Waziri family?”

“I have never had the honor of meeting them. But the name, certainly.”

“Their eldest son, Taufiq, has vanished.”

Sameh echoed the concern in Jaffar's voice. “Indeed this is dreadful news.”

Jaffar went on, “Taufiq el-Waziri has a well-earned reputation for, how shall I describe it . . .?”

“He is a firebrand,” the vizier snarled. “A troublemaker. He has earned his fate a thousand times over.”

Jaffar nodded slowly, as though giving the vizier's words serious thought. “Taufiq has vanished in the company of a female American nurse.”

“Like smoke from a desert fire,” the vizier spat out. “A life without meaning. A departure without regret.”

“Claire Reeves is her name. The American military claims the two have slipped away to Dubai for a licentious holiday.”

“Scandal,” the vizier hissed. “His family's good name is ruined.”

“The family is adamant their son would never do such a thing. But the Americans are not listening. Which is very strange. You understand?”

“Of course.” The el-Waziris were a major exporter of dates. Before Saddam's tyranny reduced the country to its knees, two-thirds of the world's dates had come from Iraq. But what was more, el-Waziri held the Coca-Cola franchise for the entire country. Though much of the American military's supplies were flown in, el-Waziri's trucks entered the Green Zone and many bases every day. “For the Americans not to listen to a man with whom they do business makes no sense.”

“What is there to understand?” The vizier retorted. “The Americans are as shamed as we are.”

“A family as powerful as Taufiq's must have connections with the government,” Sameh said. “Perhaps they should seek help.”

“The family's allies politely point out that there has been no ransom demand or any announcement from Al-Qaeda that they hold the two young people.”

“Which always happens,” the vizier added. “There is always the public proclamation. Without fail.”

“Then the bureaucrats say nothing more,” Jaffar went on. “Shaming the el-Waziris with their silence.”

“What else are they to do?” the vizier demanded. “These young fools deserve their fate, as I have said all along.”

“To make matters worse,” Jaffar said, “el-Waziri is one of my father's major backers. A devoted follower and financial supporter. To have his son and heir involved in a scandal with an American woman is disastrous.”

Sameh nodded slowly, his motions almost in time with Jaffar's. The missing young man, Taufiq, had publicly scorned the vizier and the other ultraconservatives, many of whom maintained very close ties with the religious hierarchy in Iran. Taufiq was becoming a leader within the new generation of religious Iraqis. They insisted upon a clean break with the Iranian clerics. Young hotheads like Taufiq claimed Iran was dragging their own country back into the Stone Age and making it a pariah on the world stage. A sentiment Sameh shared.

Which was why Sameh asked, “How can I help you?”

His response only infuriated the vizier further. He hissed to Jaffar, “Involving this man, this friend of the
kayen tufaily
, will poison the waters.”

Sameh felt a flutter of fear. The vizier had a reputation for carrying grudges for years, then striking hard and deep. The man's loathing for the Americans was also well known.
Kayen tufaily
literally meant “parasite creatures,” street slang that branded the user as adamantly anti-American.

The vizier was saying, “Taufiq and his
hareem
are in some Red Sea resort, pretending to be man and wife. He is a disgrace to his family and to Ramadan. There is no need to humiliate your father by involving an outsider. We should be in Nejev, where your father will tonight address the Shia nation. Not here. Not spreading the tale further.” He turned to Sameh, his gaze reptilian. “With this one.”

The vizier was known to have condoned those who persecuted Iraqi Christians. Jaffar's father had refused to speak out against his chief aide. Jaffar, however, had no time for such trash. That was the word he used when speaking of extremist Muslims who persecuted the minorities within their own society. Garbage.

Jaffar said, “My father and I spoke this very day.”

The vizier showed genuine consternation. “He has agreed to this?”

“I serve as his mouthpiece.” Jaffar turned back to Sameh and showed very real pain with his smile. “Sameh el-Jacobi, will you act on the Grand Imam's behalf?”

“Of course,” Sameh replied, wondering if his smile was as much a wince as Jaffar's. For he knew that he would be paid for this case only with honor. And honor did not buy bread in the new Iraq. “Of course.”