“And the two women. Even the grandmother. Claire Reeves is giving her another dose of insulin as we speak.”
Sameh covered his eyes, but only long enough to offer a silent song of thanks. “I am entering Parliament now. May I tell the families?”
“Tell whoever you want. Can you make sure the imam knows?”
“Jaffar is here beside me.”
Jaffar leaned over. “The children?”
“Wait one moment, Marc.” Sameh said to the imam, “They are all safe. And Taufiq.”
“Ask him where they were recovered.”
“Marc, the imam wishes to know where-”
“Twenty-eight miles inside Iran. A secret valley complex run by the Revolutionary Guard, where they have been training and arming Iraqi extremists. We found a cache of over a thousand shoulder-fired missiles.” Marc sounded both exhausted and thoroughly satisfied. “I’m happy to report the valley is no more. Neither are the missiles.”
“Wait, please.” As Sameh passed on the news, he watched the imam’s normally composed features go taut with excitement.
“I must tell all this to my father. They will want to follow his speech with a public announcement.”
“Go, go.” When the imam hurried away, Sameh asked Marc, “Where are you?”
“Baghdad’s outskirts are just below us. We’re inbound for the same hospital where we took the kids. Duboe and Hamid have called ahead. Hold on a sec, Duboe wants to have a word.”
There was a momentary pause, then the CIA operative barked, “It’s been a solid day’s work, thanks to you and our man Marc.”
“You found missiles?”
“I wouldn’t know the first thing about that, being specifically ordered not to see anything that might impact international relations.” The man’s humor remained barely below the surface, like water one half step from full boil. “All I want to say is this. Anytime, anywhere. As much as you need, for as long as you want. You read me?”
Sameh found it necessary to wipe his face a second time. “Loudly and clearly, did I say that right?”
“Close enough. You’re about to learn what we mean when we say, We take care of our own. Duboe out.”
Sameh managed to return to his feet just as Jaffar clicked off his phone. The imam wore a look of grim triumph as he said, “Let us begin.”
– – All of Parliament was gathered in the public halls. Sameh heard the elder imam’s reedy voice emanating from televisions spaced about the entrance chamber. The images continued to follow the two men as they entered the long gallery flanking the assembly hall. People murmured and pointed and moved to greet them. For a few brief moments, attention turned from the imam’s speech.
The voice of Jaffar’s father became a backdrop to Sameh’s own procession. The Grand Imam spoke in the mode of a seasoned diplomat. His aged voice was well suited to the stone-lined chambers. He named no names. But his message resonated.
As did Sameh’s. He did not need to check his list. He knew the families, the faces to match the voices with whom he had spoken, as well as the names of the beloved who were missing. Sameh’s voice was distilled through his own years of tragic experience. He knew that such good news required the same gentle composure as the tragic.
Sameh reported to the first leader he spotted, then held the man as he wept. He recalled Marc standing in the blazing sun outside a hospital entrance, kicking a concrete wall to stop himself from weeping. Marc had witnessed what it meant to give a family good news, then be forced to accept that he could not save every missing child or heal every gaping wound.
Jaffar joined him then, drawn by the sight of Sameh breaking away and moving toward the next frantic member of the Alliance. Jaffar took hold of Sameh’s arm, offering strength through his grip and his presence. The entire hall watched them now, as the Alliance leader they had just left shouted his joy to the lofty ceilings.
The growing tumult accompanied them across the main gallery and into the adjoining chambers. The louder the acclaim grew, the more inward Sameh’s focus became. As though he was being drawn to a new level of understanding by the very act of playing messenger. Jaffar noticed the change as well, for as they passed yet another television, he said, “Perhaps we should stop and hear this segment together.”
Space was made for them in the encircling throng, just in time for them to hear the imam say, “How is it that a neighbor can call itself our friend with one breath, then plan acts of subversion and destruction with the next? How is it that an ally can claim the right to undermine the will of the Iraqi people, and destroy our democracy while still in its fragile infancy?”
A hand reached over to touch Sameh’s shoulder. Sameh recognized another stricken Alliance leader. But this time, Jaffar interrupted the exchange before it could begin. “One moment, please. The ambassador needs to hear this.”
It took Sameh quite some time to realize that Jaffar was referring to him.
The imam went on, “Such uncertain times need new strength, a young mind, a fresh vision. As of today, I am retiring. I hereby hand over all official duties to my son and heir…”
The imam’s words were drowned out by a rising tumult that spilled out of the gallery and through the building.
Sameh allowed himself to be separated from the imam. He continued his role as messenger, passing from one Alliance member to the next. Over and over he heard himself referred to by the title bestowed upon him by Jaffar.
Mr. Ambassador.
Chapter Fifty
T he Christian cemetery was located beyond Baghdad’s western perimeter, quite literally at the end of the road. Just beyond the cemetery entrance, the lane simply stopped. Marc rose from the car and stared out over endless yellow miles of nothing. In the distance, dusty hills appeared to melt in the shimmering heat. Far to Marc’s left ran the main highway to Jordan, a straight black ribbon that bisected a world of gritty hues. A few bleating sheep only heightened the sense of desolation.
Yet even here, they were not alone. Half a dozen old women sat on stone benches to either side of the cemetery gates. At their feet were buckets of water holding limp bunches of flowers.
Today marked the anniversary of Leyla’s husband’s death. They had come straight from the hospital to the cemetery. Alex was resting comfortably alongside Taufiq. Hannah Brimsley and Claire Reeves were as weak and undernourished as Alex, but all four were expected to make a full recovery. None of them had eaten since the children had been shoved into the building with them. They had passed on their rations to the little ones.
Most of the children and adults had been reunited, and only two required further observation. Major Hamid Lahm had been awake, his shoulder heavily bandaged. He was being watched over by his wife, a lovely woman who bore the burdens of being a policeman’s wife with stoic calm. Farewells with Hamid had gone much easier than Marc had expected, a quiet exchange between friends with no intention of ever losing touch.
The bodyguards assigned to Leyla and Bisan now stood near the police Land Cruiser that had accompanied them. The guards and officers remained far enough away not to intrude upon the moment. Marc watched as Leyla gave Bisan some money. The child went to each old woman in turn, offering sweet words and wrinkled bills, accepting a bouquet from each. Marc glanced back to where Miriam sat in the front seat, the door open to admit a feeble breeze. They shared a smile. Bisan had the ability to draw joy from the deepest shadows.
“She has done this every year since she learned to talk,” Leyla said. “When I asked her why she did this, she said her father would want her to help every woman.”
“How she can know this?” Miriam said. “She was not yet two when her father was taken from us.”
Marc said, “She knows because he still lives in all of you.”
Leyla turned away from them and wiped her eyes.
Marc walked over and asked Bisan, “May I help you hold them?”
