Leyla asked, “Where shall I say you have gone?”
Sameh hesitated, then said, “Better you do not know.”
Chapter Eleven
M arc followed Sameh down the main staircase and out into blinding sunlight. The car seat was so hot that Marc thought his skin would blister. If Sameh noticed the heat, he gave no sign. Instead, he started the motor and pulled from the guarded parking lot. When they had merged with the traffic, Sameh said, “Qasr Al-Nehayeh.”
The pronunciation was so different from how Duboe had said the words, it took Marc a moment to realize Sameh had just named their destination.
The Iraqi lawyer asked, “Do you have any idea what that name signifies?”
“The only thing Duboe said was, you would know.”
“He is right about that.” Sameh held the steering wheel with the thumb and forefingers only. The windows were all rolled down, and the air rushing against Marc’s face was blow-dryer hot. “The name translates as The Palace of All Ends.”
The way Sameh said the words fit with the scene beyond Marc’s window. A row of concrete barriers narrowed the road from four lanes to one, snarling the traffic. Beyond the barriers was the burned-out hulk of a car. Nothing but the skeletal frame remained. No windows, doors, hood, tires, motor. All blown away by the same blast that had demolished the building behind it.
“The Palace of All Ends once had another name,” Sameh continued. “But I very much doubt you will find anyone who remembers what it might have been. During the reign of Saddam Hussein, no one who was sent there ever returned alive.” Sameh shot him a dark look. “Leyla’s husband was sent there. At least, that was the unofficial word I received. We never heard anything for certain. When I went there to ask about him, I was told that if I ever came back, I would be made permanently welcome.” Sameh hesitated a moment, then confessed, “I have never told Leyla or my wife that I made the journey.”
Marc had not spent enough time with this Iraqi to justify this sense of familiarity. But there was a genuineness that emanated from Sameh’s every word, every gesture. As though they shared something below the level of words or even thought. Marc found himself hoping Sameh felt the same way. He wanted this man to like him. Which made no sense at all. He had spent three years caring about very little. Most especially what others thought of him.
Marc said, “All I know is, Duboe thinks your gardener has landed there.”
Sameh was silent for a time, then said, “I never thought I would see you again, Mr. Royce. I thought you would pose your request only to find yourself facing the same barriers that have halted me. Instead, you come in and you charm two ladies who have made a profession of being hostile to strange men. And now I am driving you to a place I never thought I would ever return to. It is indeed a day for surprises.”
They turned onto a six-lane divided highway and left the city behind. Sameh said, “Mr. Royce, this highway is a perfect example of the difference between you, the occupier, and me, the Iraqi national. You Americans know this highway as Route Irish. Up ahead is BIAP, your name for our airport. Behind us is the Red Zone, a place of danger and adrenaline and death.”
Marc resisted the urge to ask him again to use his first name. “And for you?”
“This is our Ring Road. Since the occupation began, it has taken on another name. We call it Terror Highway. Normal citizens avoid it whenever possible. The American convoys all use it, you see. Both the military and civilian convoys are heavily armed. These convoys represent two things to an Iraqi. First, if you drive too close to one, their guards will shoot you. Second, the suicide bombers who target the convoys might take you out as well. So any time a convoy is spotted, traffic becomes manic. Thankfully, we have no convoys today.”
The steering wheel gave nervous jerks, almost as though the car shared the driver’s concern. Sameh went on, “It is a small thing, the different names you and I give a highway. But such small things are important to the Arab mind. They are used to teach our children. Not the highway name, but rather how such small items represent larger issues.”
Sameh pointed through the windshield to where a trio of battle tanks guarded the main entrance to the city’s airport. The blast walls blocked their view of everything except the tank’s gun ports and, in the far distance, the airport’s main tower. Sameh said, “I very much doubt that a single soldier stationed there knows of the Ring Road’s other name. Or if they do know, that they care. The same is true for the way you see our city. When your soldiers take Route Irish, they lock and load. They stick to the main routes, each of which has a new American name. Everywhere else is just part of Indian country.” Sameh glanced over. “But for me, Mr. Royce, the Red Zone has a very different name. It should, since my family has lived in this region for twelve hundred years. I call it home.”
– – They arrived at the prison just as the sun reached its zenith. Even so, inside the high walls it seemed to Sameh as though everything was draped in shadows. The Palace of All Ends was located beyond the city’s northern perimeter, out past where the poorest hovels met the desert. The prison was surprisingly clean and very well maintained. The gloom lingered, however. The silent whispers raised Sameh’s hackles as they passed through security and followed a guard into a large bullpen of an office. The guard filled out a form, one Sameh had not seen before. Thankfully, he had little contact with the criminal system these days. His work was primarily corporate, or intensely personal. Hunting lost children was not his only work as a mediator and go-between, merely the most painful.
Because they arrived without the standard permits to speak with a prisoner, because they came outside of normal visiting hours, and because an American was involved, Sameh’s request needed to go to the warden. But as the guard started to usher them out of the office, Sameh unfolded the gardener’s photograph and asked if this man was being held in the prison. The guard was clearly uncertain whether or not he should respond. But in the end, he nodded before telling Sameh loudly that all questions needed to wait.
They cooled their heels on a bench in a hallway smelling of industrial disinfectant. Marc held to an almost animal-like stillness for quite some time before asking, “How do you want this to go down?”
“What an extremely American question,” Sameh said. “As though anything about this life is how I want.”
“I understand that.”
Sameh turned to him. “Do you really?”
“I might be completely new. But everything I’ve seen so far tells me you’re a good man dealing with an impossible situation. You’re stuck in a place and a time so bad you have every reason to leave. But you don’t. You said it yourself. This is your home.”
There was a risk of underestimating this young man, Sameh realized. “Why are you telling me this?”
“We’re building trust. Between each other, and also with others who are not here but who are waiting to see what we can do. That’s what today’s trip is ultimately about.”
“We’re here to save a child’s life.”
“Of course. But for a second, let’s look beyond the immediate. Let’s suppose you had the chance to describe a perfect outcome. What would that be?”
“You are referring to the missing child or to your missing friend?”
“As far as we’re concerned, right now those two problems are joined at the hip.”
Sameh nodded slowly. He let his gaze drift over the featureless walls, down to where a slender man in prison garb washed the floor. The inmate’s motions were slow, drawing out the work as long as possible. Sameh briefly wondered at a life so dull, so meaningless, that washing a prison floor would carry a hint of freedom.
Sameh said, “I am hoping that we will be given permission to speak with the prisoner. We need something that will cause this prisoner to help us. I had planned to offer him my services as an attorney. If he agrees to help us, I will throw myself upon the mercy of the court tomorrow. Ask a judge to grant this prisoner his freedom, in exchange for information regarding the location of this child. But first I need to be certain this is indeed the gardener, and that he will give us what we seek.”
“We don’t have until tomorrow,” Marc replied. “You said it yourself. A child’s life is at stake here. What if the judge forces you to wait a couple more days?”
“That could certainly happen.”
