constrict and could not name the reason. He feared his attention on them would be considered improper, so he focused on his host, Sameh. Yet the three tugged at the periphery of his vision like magnets.
Sameh seemed to fumble for words. “You are here.”
“Thanks again for your invitation.”
“I would like to introduce my family. This is my wife, Miriam. Leyla you already know. And this is Bisan, her daughter.”
“It is an honor.”
Miriam had the same beauty as her niece and the girl, only in Sameh’s wife it had been softened by age. She was still slender and held herself as erect as the others. She said, “It is you who honors us, Mr. Royce.”
“Come,” Sameh said. “I dislike being late.”
As they crossed the parking area, Bisan asked in her careful English, “You are a secret agent?”
Leyla said, “Bisan. Is this proper talk for church?”
“We are not inside yet, Mama. Can he just tell me that?”
At Leyla’s nod, Marc said, “The correct term is operative. And yes, I was. For six years. But most of the time I rode a desk.”
“Please, you ride on a desk?”
“It means I stayed in headquarters. I wasn’t in the field.”
“You liked this?”
“Sometimes. Other times it was awfully boring.”
“But safe, yes?”
Marc took a careful look at her. “May I ask how old you are?”
Leyla replied, “My Bisan is eleven. Going on thirty.”
“Your English is excellent, Bisan.”
“I learned it from Uncle Sameh. For my papa. He was very good with English.”
“And many other things,” Sameh replied. “He was a judge. And a giant among men.”
Miriam murmured, “God keep his soul at peace until the final day.”
“Come,” Sameh said. “The service is about to begin.”
The year before his wife had suffered her stroke, Marc and Lisbeth had attended a wedding in an Orthodox church in Washington, D.C. That structure had been relatively new. But there had been an unmistakable aura of age about the place and the service and the rituals. Marc had loved the feeling of being connected to his faith’s ancient heritage.
The sensation he had known in Washington only hinted at what greeted him here.
The church’s exterior was typical Baghdad. Whatever color the stucco might once have been was now reduced to grime and raw brick. Power cables were nailed to the wall above the entrance. The steps were cracked and pitted. The entry had once been tiled with mosaics, but all that remained were a few gritty flowers around the edges.
Inside, however, all this changed.
The smell was just as Marc remembered, a patina of old incense. It surprised him just how cool the church was, as though the city’s heat was barred from entering, along with so much else.
The priests were tonsured, their remaining hair forming a circle around their scalps. They were robed in white and gold. The chants were sung without accompaniment, the priests’ voices deep and resonant. Marc felt the words in his chest, in his heart. He rose, knelt, and sat with the four. When the priest began his brief homily, Marc let his mind drift back to the last time he had been in church. How he had cupped Lisbeth’s photograph in his hands, stared at the photograph and wondered about his life. He truly felt that he had come to the turning point, finally recovering from his loss. Ready to move on. And yet, there was that question that had lurked in the shadows: move on to what?
Now here he was. Seated in the middle of an ancient church, in a land that predated history. Staring at his empty hands. And asking himself the same question. Move on to what?
When the service ended, Marc remained standing at the end of the pew. The central aisle was blocked. It seemed as though the entire congregation wanted to greet Sameh and shake his hand. The man was clearly uncomfortable with the attention, and yet he handled it well. He was every inch the gentleman, a true aristocrat in his slightly rumpled suit and the dusting of gray in his hair. He had a smile that invited confidences, and a gaze that promised neither judgment nor condemnation. Marc wondered if this was an Iraqi ability, to say so much in silence. But he thought not. He suspected it was more the measure of this man. Marc found himself watching Sameh and the three women who stood around him, hoping they might one day call him friend.
He was so intent in his reflections that he did not notice the girl’s approach until Bisan stood at his side. “Does church make you sad?”
“No, not at all.”
“You looked very-what is the word?” She tugged on Miriam’s sleeve and asked a question.
Miriam glanced back at him, then said in English, “Distressed.”
Marc found himself not the least bit uncomfortable about having to explain. Which surprised him. Talking about himself had always been difficult. But this ancient church, and the sharing of a ritual two thousand years in the making, left him not merely vulnerable but willing to confess, “Sometimes I need a place to ask myself impossible questions.”
For some reason, his words turned them all around. Even Sameh, though Marc would not have thought the man could hear him. Leyla spoke directly to him for the first time that day. “My husband, God keep his soul in peace, used to say the same thing.”
“I don’t remember that, Mama.”
“How could you. You were not yet two when he died.”
“I think I remember things. Or you tell me, and I make them my memories.”
Something about the child’s words caused Leyla’s eyes to well up. “You are my heart’s delight.”
Marc wished there were some way to thank them for speaking so openly, in English, so as to include him in the secrets and the love. He said, “Lisbeth used to say I was made to run. But even runners needed a place to stop and think and listen. Even warriors.”
“Lisbeth was your wife?”
“Yes.”
“I am sorry for your loss. So sorry.” Her voice was soft, melodic. “May God grant her eternal peace. And you.”
Miriam asked, “Please tell me, Mr. Royce. I find it very curious, you see, what troubles you this morning. If you would ask me, today is a day for celebrating. What is the most difficult question you have asked yourself this day?”
Marc found it impossible to be anything less than honest. “What I should do with the rest of my life.”
Miriam glanced at her husband, then said to Marc, “I cannot tell you that, of course. But, please, you must join us for dinner, yes?”
“It would be my honor.”
“No, no, it is we who are honored. You will come this evening, yes? Good. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Royce. I wish you success with this day. And with answering your questions. All of them.” She glanced at Leyla, then Sameh. “Your question is most important. A very great challenge. It is nice to hear a man willing to ask such questions, even when it makes him sad. Very nice.”
Chapter Seventeen
S ameh was not surprised to find Major Hamid Lahm waiting for him in the church parking area. Not after all the commotion he had faced inside.
Lahm saluted him and spoke in English for Marc’s sake. “Forgive me for disturbing you, here of all places. Miss Aisha told me where I would find you. We must hurry back to your office.”
Sameh saw Miriam and Bisan off in his car, then joined Marc and Leyla in the same Land Cruiser they had
