“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, 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.”
