connections could find someone with better-what do you call it-bona fides? Someone with Middle East experience? Someone who knows Baghdad and the situation here?”
“Three reasons.”
“I’m listening, Mr. Royce.”
“First, there are people inside the government who do not want Alex Baird found. Why, I have no idea. But this has left Walton’s hands tied. He would have gone through official channels if he could have. But he can’t.”
This mirrored the situation Sameh faced in Baghdad and had been confirmed by Barry Duboe. Sameh merely replied, “That is one reason.”
“My guess is, Ambassador Walton suspects Alex has gone missing because of some issue tied to the church. How, I don’t know. But one of the missing women is a missionary. And they all worshiped at the same Green Zone chapel. That is a coincidence. Ambassador Walton has another name for coincidences. He calls them fault lines. Points where the mystery may be resolved.”
“Your ambassador sounds like a very intelligent man. And point three?”
“Walton is using me as bait.”
Sameh leaned back in his seat. It was what he had himself been thinking. But to have Marc Royce suggest it in such a calm and analytical fashion was most remarkable.
The young man went on, “Barry Duboe is also a friend of Alex. And a longtime ally of Ambassador Walton. But he has hit the same stone wall. So they plant me in plain sight. You know the expression, ‘tethered goat’?”
“Of course.”
Marc Royce explained it anyway. “You trap a dangerous predator by tying live bait out where the beast can get a good look. And you hide your best shooters nearby. And you wait.”
“It does not bother you to have this gentleman in Washington use you in such a fashion?”
“I’d like to think Walton expects me to survive.”
“Even so. You owe Alex Baird so much?”
Once more, Marc Royce’s eyes met his host’s to reveal hidden pains. “My life and more.”
Sameh found himself far from displeased to have been handed this American. He was in fact very intrigued. Even so, he needed to be certain that this intense young man was actually worth the bother. “You ask a great deal of me, Mr. Royce. Your presence represents a very large and potentially dangerous request. And we both know it.”
Marc lifted his tea, blew across the surface, and tasted it. “This tea is great.”
“Before we discuss the issue that has brought us together, I need to know if you are indeed a man I can rely on.” Sameh pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and set it on the table between them. “I have a situation. One that troubles me as much as the missing Americans disturb you. Perhaps more.”
Marc set down the glass. “Tell me what you need.”
“Inside the envelope is the photograph and name and fingerprints of a kidnapper. We believe he has taken the young child of my client. The child’s photograph and other details are also enclosed. I need help finding that man. He was employed by my client as a gardener. During Saddam’s regime he had been arrested for abduction and murder.”
Marc Royce underwent a remarkable transformation. One that actually silenced the tables to either side of them. The courteous facade simply vanished. In its place was a man of such cold fury that even Sameh was a little frightened. “He kidnapped a baby?”
“The boy turned four soon after he was abducted. Barry Duboe has refused to help me unless or until we find your-”
“I’ll talk to him.” He was already on his feet. “How do I reach you?”
– – During the drive from the hotel back to his office, Sameh repeatedly recalled the young man’s expression. It captured a fighter’s strength, an implacable force. Focused upon saving the life of a child he had never met. An Arab child.
Sameh wondered if perhaps the young man’s arrival was something more than it seemed. There was an expression many Iraqis used at the beginning of each day, actually a Christian prayer that predated Islam. But it was spoken by many Muslims as well. Ya sabbah, ya aleem . Salutations to the Giver of this new day, to the Giver of this life. It was intended to draw divine protection into a chaotic world. Sameh silently repeated the blessing, then asked the dusty day through the windshield, was Marc Royce’s arrival a sign? And if so, a sign of what?
Chapter Ten
M arc checked into a room at the Al-Hamra. The hotel was a decent enough place, with fresh sheets, clean facilities, and even a small balcony. Marc paid extra for a room on the seventh floor, one just below the penthouse. He had no idea why it was good to be up high, other than how the generator’s noise was muted. But the desk clerk said the upper-floor rooms cost fifty dollars more a night. Marc assumed if anybody was willing to pay that much for a couple dozen feet of extra elevation, there had to be a good reason.
Marc pulled the room’s lone chair over to the balcony window. Beyond the sliding glass doors, the city weaved and danced in the heat. He opened the new cellphone and dialed the number Barry Duboe had given him.
Duboe answered on the first ring. “This better be good.”
“I need something.”
“You already got all the somethings I’m ready to deliver.”
“This is important.”
“Always is.”
Marc spelled the gardener’s name. Sketched out the details on Sameh’s single sheet of paper. Passport number. Date of last arrest. Charges of abduction, extortion, murder. Released in the dying days of Saddam’s regime.
Duboe said, “I’m hanging up now.”
“And I’m calling Walton. Then I’ll make the request a second time, and wait for you to call me back. How does that work for you?” When the CIA agent responded by breathing hard into his ear, Marc went on, “I’ve got a photograph and fingerprints. Give me your fax number.”
Anger grated Duboe’s voice as he recited the numbers. Then he cut the connection.
Marc went downstairs and waited while the fax was sent. He asked the receptionist for directions and left the hotel. To him, the entire world was a superheated yellow. Everything was coated in the same drenching layers of heat and dust. Cars, buildings, people, air. Even the light.
He walked along a raised sidewalk past a third-world array of tiny shops. Cellphones, computers, children’s games, kitchen utensils-on and on the shops went. Conversations stopped as Marc passed. Dark eyes studied him for any hint of threat or weakness, then dismissed him.
The traffic was slow and sullen. Marc’s every breath felt clogged with grime and diesel and roasting lamb and coriander and mint. He found it an earthy, thrilling mix. Marc felt his blood surge in a way he had thought lost and gone forever. His senses were on danger alert. The high was so strong and unexpected he felt guilty.
He entered the establishment which the receptionist had suggested. A pair of men, clearly father and son, welcomed him in a loud mixture of English and Arabic. The receptionist no doubt had called ahead, working hard for his kickback. Marc purchased three sets of clothes to match those he had seen other nonmilitary Westerners wear- pale cotton slacks, loose shirts, everything made from substances that could be washed in the sink, hung out to dry, and worn again without ironing. He also purchased a pair of lightweight canvas lace-ups, a cross between sneakers and boots.
He took his purchases back to the hotel, where he showered and lay down on the bed. Marc did not expect to sleep, but the next thing he knew there was an unfamiliar buzzing sound next to his ear. He fumbled across the nightstand for his new cellphone, rubbed his eyes, and said, “This is Marc.”
“I got what you want.”
“Hold on.” He rose from his bed and walked to the desk. The electronic clock read four fifteen. The city outside his window was completely dark. Duboe was calling him the hour before dawn. Marc found the hotel pen
