Marc decided to play his hunch that the ambassador wanted to be on their side, even if it was a risk. So he asked, “Could you give us a week to think over your offer?”
“Absolutely not.” Yet the ambassador seemed to genuinely approve of the question. “Completely out of the question.”
“How much time could you manage?”
The ambassador showed no surprise at all. “What makes you think I can give you any time at all?”
Marc remained silent. Hopeful.
“Officially, your associate has until five o’clock tomorrow. Not a moment longer.” The ambassador glanced at Duboe. He hesitated, then said, “I need a lever. Something to convince the watchers that you are too big to touch.”
“If I can do that, how long?”
“An additional seventy-two hours. And that’s it.”
“I’ll do what I can. Thanks.”
The ambassador rose to his feet. “Tell Mr. el-Jacobi that this offer comes care of some very powerful interests. These same people will become his worst enemies if he continues with the investigation. They will do their utmost to crush him. And you as well.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
A s Sameh was leaving the literary cafe, his cellphone rang. Aisha, her voice low, said, “I must ask you to come back to the office, sir.”
“Not now, Aisha. I’m tired, and the American is coming for dinner.” The American. As though there was only one of them in all of Baghdad.
“Leyla says she will take your car and pick up Marc. You need to return here. Now.”
Sameh went, mostly because Aisha was not one for histrionics. If she indicated there was an emergency, she had reason for it. Sameh flagged a passing taxi and seated himself beside the driver. For once, the center of Baghdad was not a massive parking lot. They made good time.
The street in front of his office was empty of police and newspeople and distraught parents. Even so, the entry hall and cracked marble stairs seemed to echo with all that had come before. Sameh imagined the old building had somehow managed to absorb the day’s heavy burden and was releasing it now in silent wisps of grief.
Four families were seated in his outer office. Cups of tea sat untouched before each of them. Sameh recognized one of the men from the bad old days, and instantly the situation snapped into focus.
One of the first empire builders in recorded history, Sargon, ruled Iraq around 2300 BC. As his armies conquered the fertile crescent and his reach expanded to include parts of what today is Syria, India, Iran, and Egypt, Sargon filled his top positions with members of his own village clan. These tribesmen made up his innermost circle and were appointed to rule over the far-flung provinces.
This same ruling structure had been adopted by a more recent dictator, Saddam Hussein.
Saddam’s ruling council were all selected from the Tikriti, the name of both his tribe and his home village. After the Americans arrived, Tikrit and the surrounding region acquired a different name, as it was the haven for extremists seeking to undermine the American-led war effort. The Americans called that region the Triangle of Death.
For the other distraught parents who had recently departed Sameh’s office, these Tikriti families represented the horror of Saddam’s regime. Two of them had held senior positions. They were at least indirectly responsible for the chaos. And, by tragic reasoning, they would also have been held responsible for the missing children.
The distraught parents might well have torn them apart.
But Sameh forced himself to look beyond past crimes. He had no choice. Because all four families held photographs from his office wall.
– – Marc arrived back at his hotel with just enough time to shower and change and return downstairs. He had scarcely arrived on the front veranda when Leyla pulled up in Sameh’s dusty Peugeot. As he sat down in the passenger seat, Leyla said, “Uncle has been called to a meeting at the office. Aisha says it is about the rescued children. He will meet us at home.”
“Fine. Thank you.” But as Leyla reinserted herself into the Baghdad traffic, Marc decided he had spoken too soon.
Leyla’s driving was as bad as the traffic. She scooted around a corner, almost taking a cluster of pedestrians off at the knees. A man shouted a high-pitched bark and a woman swung her purse, but they were already long past. Marc would have thought there was no space in the traffic circle for a scooter, much less a car. But somehow Leyla wedged herself into the flow, pushing impatiently on the horn.
Marc asked, “Are we in a hurry?”
“This is the only way to get anywhere in Baghdad.” She pulled two wheels over the curb and eased around a pair of cement mixers, who blared their horns in outrage. “People ignore the traffic lights which still work. Cars drive against the flow and on the wrong side of the road, even when the road is divided. The bus stops have been taken over by street vendors, so the buses only halt for passengers when they feel like it. Which means if people see that a bus is pausing, they run through the traffic because buses never stop for long.”
Marc fit his foot into a well-worn indentation in the floorboard as they approached an intersection. When he realized Leyla had no intention of either slowing or checking for oncoming vehicles, Marc decided he had two choices. Holler with fear, or shut his eyes. He did both.
Gut-wrenching eons later, they turned into a residential section. Guards drew back a portable barrier and saluted Leyla as she passed. She offered a soft greeting in reply.
They turned down a quiet lane and halted before another pair of metal gates. Leyla beeped her horn, and a grizzled veteran of Baghdad life peered through a face-high portal, then unlocked the gates and pulled them back. He waved them through, shut and locked the gates, and offered Leyla a quiet salaam. When he saw Marc climb unsteadily out the passenger side, he gave a low chuckle.
Bisan, Leyla’s daughter, was there to greet them at the front door. “Did Mama frighten you?”
“Almost to death,” Marc admitted.
“Uncle hates to go anywhere with her. Even the seven blocks to the market.” Bisan closed the door behind them, enduring her mother’s hug. “Uncle called. He is on his way home now.”
Leyla asked, “Where is Aunt Miriam?”
“In the kitchen, naturally.”
“Can I leave you to see to our guest while I prepare for supper?”
“Of course, Mama. I’m not a child.”
Leyla shot a glance at Marc over Bisan’s head. “I won’t be long.”
The girl led him into the living room. “Please, will you take a seat?”
“Thank you.”
“Will you have tea?”
“Should I wait for the others?”
“You are our guest of honor. You may do whatever pleases you.”
“Tea will be nice, thank you.”
“Mint or regular?”
Before he could respond, Miriam appeared in the second doorway, wiping her hands on an apron she wore over a floor-length green dress with long sleeves. “Do not play twenty questions with this one. She will always win.”
“Aunt Miriam, I was just asking-”
“I heard you and your askings. Now come into the kitchen and give our guest a chance to breathe.” Dark eyes glimmered with warm humor. “Did you enjoy Leyla’s tour of Baghdad?”
“I didn’t see a thing,” Marc replied. “I kept my eyes shut.”
“Believe it or not, Bisan actually enjoys going places with her mother.”
From the kitchen a young voice called, “I tell her to go faster.”
