and pad by moonlight, rubbed his face again, and said, “Go ahead.”
Duboe gave him a name, then spelled it out, each letter brittle with his wrath. When he stopped, Marc asked, “Do I need an address?”
“Not for that place.”
“Should this name mean something to me?”
“Ask your new best pal. He knows.” Duboe’s words felt like bullets. “You tell Sameh I’ve delivered. This is a one-time gift. Either you come in with the goods, or the game is over. Repeat, over.”
– – Sameh’s office was just off Nidhal Street. Many of the city’s ancient structures had started life as palaces, including this one. But the building had been poorly maintained and battered by war. Recently it had been expanded in an ugly and haphazard manner, so that it covered every square inch of what once had been formal gardens. But here and there were still vestiges of the lost grandeur. Sameh’s private office occupied what probably had been a beloved child’s bedroom. The room was narrow and long, with a high peaked ceiling. The walls and ceiling still held shadows of original murals, vague shapes that suggested a fabled garden and birds in flight. This was extremely rare, as Islam forbade the making of images. Yet here they were, ghostly recollections of a faded past.
The building had air-conditioning. But most days they could not risk turning it on. Baghdad endured constant power shortages. The danger was not in losing power entirely, but in the power declining. If the air-conditioner was running during such a decline, the condenser would burn out. There were no replacement condensers in Baghdad, and few repairmen. All parts had to be brought in from Jordan. So the air-conditioner did not run.
The various offices all owned shares of a generator. The generator ran the lights and the fans, but when the city’s power went out, everything dimmed and the fans emitted a sullen growl.
Sameh had spent the previous afternoon trying to find where the gardener might have lived. Supposedly there were records of all the felons released in Saddam’s last days. The police were constantly revamping the list of those whom they knew to still be in Baghdad. Many had fled, either to outlying cities or away from Iraq entirely. Several hundred were known to have remained in the capital, however, and these were carefully monitored. What made this gardener interesting was how no one seemed to know anything about him.
Sameh entered his office to find Marc waiting for him. Which was a surprise. What was more of an astonishment was how his aides smiled at this young American.
One of Sameh’s two assistants was his niece, Leyla. She had been married to a judge. Sameh had introduced the two of them. Since both her parents were deceased, Sameh had also served as Leyla’s official guardian during the courtship. Leyla’s husband had been one of very few judges during Saddam’s regime who had not been a member of the Baath Party. The last year of Saddam’s rule, the judge had been handed a case in which a Baath official had taken over the villa of a family after they disappeared. Despite warnings, the family’s relatives had taken the case to court. Leyla’s husband had sided with the family’s relatives and ordered the party official to vacate the house. A week later, all the relatives of the family had vanished. As had Leyla’s husband. After Hussein was captured, the judge’s remains were exhumed and returned to the family for proper burial.
Leyla and her young daughter lived with Sameh and his wife. Initially, Sameh had given his niece a job simply to help her recover from her grief. Now Leyla served as Sameh’s right hand.
Sameh’s other assistant was a woman named Aisha, the only woman of her family to obtain a university education. Aisha was in an unhappy marriage. Her only real joy came from her work. She cherished Sameh and Leyla. Sameh had originally hired Aisha because of her Sunni heritage. Sameh was publicly known as a Christian who also had strong ties to the Shia community. Sameh’s choice of assistants was intended to say that he represented everyone equally and fairly. Both women wore what had become the standard dress for educated professional women in the nation’s capital-dark Western-style dresses of ankle length, with scarves draped about their necks. When they were in public, the scarves were drawn up to cover their hair.
Leyla was in the process of serving Marc coffee. Which was not unusual. What struck Sameh was the manner in which Leyla observed their guest. Sameh’s niece was strikingly beautiful, but she usually wrapped herself in a mantle of sorrow. Though only twenty-nine, Leyla made a profession of dismissing every possible suitor out of hand. Sameh and his wife feared she would grow old and shrivel away long before her time. Yet today she refilled Marc’s cup with an expression that halted Sameh in his doorway.
Leyla said to her uncle. “Marc is an accountant.”
The previous evening, Sameh had told his wife and Leyla about his meeting with Marc. He normally told them everything that was not privileged client information, though even this rule was stretched when it came to cases involving the absent children. Their commonsense advice and their female perspective had been instrumental in retrieving several of the little ones. Sameh had described Marc as a former intelligence officer. Nothing more. Which was hardly a surprise, since he knew little more himself.
Leyla went on, “He studied at the University of Maryland. In Baltimore.”
Marc corrected, “I studied mostly online. I was… busy.”
Sameh shut the outer door. “You are a CPA?”
“Forensic accountant.”
Aisha’s eyes gleamed with an unusual curiosity. “What is that, please?”
“A forensic accountant searches for the hidden. Normally they’re brought in when there is suspicion of wrongdoing. Or a bankruptcy. Any time the figures don’t add up.”
Leyla said, “It sounds most interesting.”
Marc glanced at Sameh, then back at the two women. “Most days my work ranks right up there with watching paint dry.”
Sameh set his briefcase on the coffee table. “He means it is very boring.”
“Then why do you do it?” Leyla wondered.
“I sort of fell into it.”
Aisha’s English was almost as good as Leyla’s. But when she was keyed up, her accent became pronounced. Like now. “Forgive me. But how is this possible, that you fall into being an accountant?”
“A specialist accountant,” Leyla added.
Aisha said, “It must be very much work.”
Marc glanced once more at Sameh. Clearly the young American did not want to answer. He finally said, “My wife became ill. I stopped working for the government to take care of her. I needed something to fill the days, so I began studying online. Numbers had always been easy for me. It seemed like a good fit. At the time.”
The women exchanged glances. Leyla asked, “Your wife, she is well now?”
“No. She passed on three years ago.”
“I am very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
Sameh noticed the man’s hand tremble slightly as he replaced the cup in the saucer. When Marc rose to his feet, the women rose with him, as they would for a most distinguished visitor. Marc asked Sameh, “Could you drive me somewhere, please?”
Aisha sounded apologetic. “I must remind you that you are due for meetings at the bank. And the Imam Jaffar’s office called. They say it is most urgent that Jaffar meet with you. In person.”
Sameh said to Marc, “As you can see, this is going to be a busy day.”
“It has to do with the missing child.”
“You have found the gardener?”
“Maybe.”
“This is from Duboe?”
“Yes. And he says we can ask for nothing else.”
“He gave you an address?”
In response, Marc handed Sameh a slip of paper. As soon as Sameh read the words, he felt his blood congeal in his veins.
Leyla must have noticed his response, for she offered, “I can manage the bank meetings. I was with you at the last conference. I know what is required.”
“Thank you.” Sameh said to Aisha, “Call Jaffar and tell him I will speak with him later. Probably not until tomorrow.”
“But-”
“Explain about the child. He will understand.” Sameh turned to Marc. “Let us go.”
