headed down the street and around the corner and into a place I know. If you want to stay alive, you follow.”
He was gone almost before the words were formed, gliding through the massed foot traffic like smoke. Marc did his best to keep up, moving at a pace one notch below a full run. They left the square and went down a major thoroughfare, turned onto a smaller street, then entered an alley so narrow it remained in perpetual shadows.
The leopard found his way into a locals-only cafe filled with smoke from a dozen hookahs. He walked to the back wall, mirrored so he could sit with his back to the street and still survey everything that was going on. He pointed Marc to a stool and said, “This place caters to the crowd that doesn’t like the Ramadan fast any more than I do. You gotten sick of mint tea yet? It’s either that or coffee thick as oatmeal.”
“I’m supposed to be meeting-”
“I know all about that, sport. Why do you think I’m here?”
The leopard moved to the counter and ordered in what to Marc sounded like passable Arabic. He returned with the teas and a plate of cold flatbread. He settled on the stool next to Marc and offered him a hand that felt like stone. “Josh Reames.”
“Are you special ops?”
He had a grin that mocked. “Where I go, baby, that ain’t nothin’ but words for the body bag. You dig?”
“You’re a ghost operating outside the official remit.”
“Roger that. I’m not here, and we’re not talking. Only, I got to tell you, I like what you did, saving those kids. And I like even more how you gave the ’Racks credit. Me and my crew, we dig knowing there’s an American civvie working the local scene, who’s not hunting the spotlight back home.”
Marc gave that a moment, then asked, “Why are we sitting here?”
Reames lifted his tulip glass by the rim between thumb and forefinger. He blew softly, sipped, then said, “The guy you’re supposed to meet inside that hotel, he’s not on your side.”
“You mean Barry Duboe?”
“Not him. The man who ordered Duboe to set up this meeting.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“You’re lucky. Jordan Boswell is not your basic embassy stiff. Boswell’s clawing his way up the Washington ladder and doesn’t care how many good joes he leaves in the dust.”
“Does this mean you’re an ally?”
“Long as you’re looking for the missing three, you bet.”
“Now why is that, I wonder.”
“One of the women who took off with Alex, we had a thing going.”
“The missionary, Hannah Brimsley?” Marc watched the specialist jerk a brief nod. “Can you tell me why they’ve disappeared?”
“All I know is, they were working with this other guy on something big.”
“The missing Iraqi, Taufiq el-Waziri. He was Christian?”
“No, man. His family is big-time Muslims.”
“So maybe he converted?”
“You don’t use that word around here. It’s like lighting a fuse with these people. But the way Hannah talked about this secret gig of hers, I’d say something more was going on than one local coming to faith.” He took off his sunglasses, revealing two strips of lighter skin across forehead and cheeks, and eyes hollowed by the strain of his life and his loss. “There aren’t supposed to be missionaries operating inside this country. Hannah was here as aide to the Green Zone pastor. He’s an okay joe, but he’s in way over his head, just marking days off his calendar and praying he makes it home in one piece.”
Marc heard the unspoken. “Hannah Brimsley is different.”
“The lady lives for her God. She spent two years studying Arabic before she shipped over. She took care, she worked it smooth. She lives to bring Jesus into this world. And there’s just no telling what’s happened, or where she’s…”
Marc watched in the mirror as Josh Reames fought down his panic and restored the iron calm of an officer operating behind the lines. The way Josh loved this woman resonated deeply. Marc asked, “You met her over here?”
“Last year at a church gig.” His voice had lowered one raw octave. “I’d studied the Book, man. For years. But she was the one who taught me what the words meant.”
“Love,” Marc said softly, remembering. “Hope. Peace. Healing. Life.”
The hand lifting Josh’s cup shook slightly.
Marc said, “Since we’re into confessions, let me tell you, I don’t know what I’m doing. Until last week, my world was a prison called Baltimore.”
That brought Reames back from the edge. “Duboe said you were a bookkeeper.”
“The correct term is forensic accountant. Sort of an operative with numbers.” Marc waved that away. “The important thing is, I’ve been dropped in the deep end.”
“Which means you’re open to advice.”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay, Royce. Here’s what you do. Call Duboe. He’s over there in the Palestine Hotel, sitting next to the embassy jerk. He’s why I’m here. Duboe’s been made by every watcher in Baghdad. You, on the other hand, do not want to show up on that list. The Hotel Palestine is strictly for people taking the armored limo from the airport to the Green Zone, have dinner with the ambassador, bunk down at the safest hotel in Baghdad, and jet out again. They’re the sort who’re after photo ops and bragging rights. The embassy jerk ordered Duboe to arrange this meet because he wants you made by the bad guys. And taken out.”
Marc opened his phone and dialed the number. “What do I say?”
“Tell Duboe there’s been a bomb alert aimed at the hotel. Which there was. Only it was last week. But you don’t need to say that. The embassy jerk will bug out and scuttle back to the Green Zone.”
When Duboe answered, Marc fed him the line. Barry Duboe had clearly been expecting it. There was the sound of the phone being muffled, then Duboe asked, “Think you could find that alley where the troop carrier dropped you off?”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow morning, ten o’clock.”
Marc shut the phone and said, “Why does somebody at the embassy want me gone?”
“You’re the last thing they expected.”
“Which is?”
“A success.”
“How can they say that? I haven’t done what I was sent out here to do. Alex and the other three are still missing.”
“Maybe so. But they hear the justice minister talking about some mystery American being involved in locating kidnapped children, and they worry. Then the top imam’s son, Jaffar, he talks about the role this American played and how great it is to see Americans caring about Iraqi children, and they worry some more.”
Marc started to ask Josh Reames how he knew all this, but decided it didn’t matter. “Is there a tie between the kidnapped children and the missing Americans?”
“That’s a good question, Royce. Here’s another. Are you ready for a walk on the wild side?”
“With you? Absolutely.”
“That’s the right answer.” Josh Reames finished his tea and rose from his stool. “Duboe gave me your cellphone number. When the time is right, I’ll invest a dime. You be ready to move.”
Then he was gone.
Chapter Twenty-One
S ameh was still mulling over the confrontation near the Persian market when he arrived at his destination. He recognized Hassan’s bodyguard, one of several outside the cafe’s entrance. The guard bowed stiffly and motioned Sameh through the entrance.
