T heir destination was El Shorjeh, Baghdad’s main shopping district. Lahm explained this in his slow, accented English. Marc assumed the major had developed his careful cadence while questioning criminals.
Major Lahm had selected three of his men to accompany them. The others had not liked being left at the hospital. Clearly they sensed the four police officers and Marc were going on a sortie that might involve action. Sameh had translated Lahm’s words to Marc, which turned out to be a calm reminder that if Lahm rose up the ladder, he took his whole team with him. Marc wished he’d known more officers like this man.
Lahm made a stop at one of the multitude of small shops lining the street, this one selling secondhand clothing. He spoke with his men, and they swiftly selected what passed for lower middle-class Arab garb, from unironed cotton trousers to scuffed street shoes to shapeless jackets and collarless shirts. They slipped into curtained alcoves at the back of the store and changed out of their navy blue police uniforms. They bought a head- kerchief and coiled ropelike band for Marc, then argued when he tried to pay.
The traffic was the worst Marc had yet seen. Major Lahm explained that they approached the celebration marking the end of Ramadan. People shopped and visited and prepared to cast the burden of the fast aside.
Marc related everything that Josh Reames had told him, which was very little. They were going on a stakeout, working on a tip. Josh had warned it might be nothing. Then again, their source had been right before. If so, Josh had promised, they’d be in for a very hot afternoon. When Marc repeated this, Lahm replied calmly, “Baghdad has many of these.”
Hamid Lahm directed his driver to pull through a checkpoint armed by soldiers in khaki. He flashed a badge, spoke briefly, then was saluted and waved through. As they exited the Land Cruiser, Hamid explained this had formerly been a U.S. military base and was now used for the training and placement of city police. They left the vehicle and passed back through the checkpoint to join the flow of pedestrians.
The crowd was boisterous and good-natured. They found Josh Reames seated with two other men outside a market cafe. The sidewalk was raised four feet above street level and shaded by an ancient brick overhang. The view was out over the market stalls and the street to a dusty square. The police station stood to the left of the square’s opposite side. Across the four-lane road from the station was a large mosque and teaching center, all hidden behind another ancient wall.
Battered metal tables spilled out of shops and around the building’s corner. Josh’s table was positioned so he and his men could disappear down an alley if necessary. A pair of stone pillars shadowed them. Televisions were bolted to the pillars, showing a blurry news show. The air was thick with smoke from hookahs and from a charcoal brazier just inside the shop’s doorway. People slipped into the shop and ate, their Ramadan offense hidden from accusing eyes. Then they returned to the outdoor tables and smoked. The shop’s interior was packed.
The din was fierce. Drivers trapped in the street circling the square leaned on their horns. The stallholders described their merchandise in a never-ending chant. Many stalls had boom boxes lashed to their front poles, blaring Arabic music through broken speakers. Donkeys brayed and children screamed. Shoppers argued over price and quality.
Josh and his men were relaxed in the manner of hunting cats. They watched Hamid and Marc pull over a pair of chairs and sit down. Josh nodded toward Major Lahm. “Explain to me why this could possibly be a good idea.”
“Everybody I’m talking to tells me the U.S. presence is winding down,” Marc said. “The military is handing over control to the locals.” He gestured to Hamid. “This man, Hamid Lahm, is one local you can trust.”
“You’re sure of that.”
“Yes,” Marc replied. “I am.”
“I’m only asking, see, on account of how you’re placing my life and the lives of my team in their hands.”
“I trusted him,” Marc replied. “And I’m glad I did.”
“The thing with the kids?”
Marc pointed a second time at Hamid. “The major and his men kept the rescue from going south.”
Josh looked at Hamid for the first time. “So what are you, some kind of Iraqi SWAT?”
Hamid Lahm shook his head. “We are prison guards.”
Behind the bill of his dusty cap and the black sunglasses, Josh Reames presented a blank stone mask. “I heard about some super-hot police action types who got sent out to a prison in the middle of nowhere. Been cooling their heels ever since.”
Hamid Lahm just sat and stared at the American.
Josh asked, “What were you and your men, you know, back in the bad old days?”
Hamid Lahm replied, “I forget.”
Josh smiled. A quick flash, there and gone. “That good, huh.”
The man shrugged. “Maybe.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Hamid. Hamid Lahm.”
“Okay, Hamid, how many guns did you bring?”
“Myself and three more. Good men.”
“We’ve got the three here, and another playing spotter from the roof overhead. And look over there. The green Proton with the dent in the driver’s door.”
“Yes. With two men. Can they fight?”
“They better, they want to stay on my team.”
Hamid asked, “What is happening?”
“Maybe nothing. But we got word from friends on the street that a deal could be going down. You understand that word, Hamid, deal?”
“Trouble, yes. I understand.” Hamid turned to scout the terrain beyond the shadows. “You have no Iraqi allies of your own?”
Josh lost his trace of humor. “Our allies are Sunni. The word is, today’s target is this market, which is all Shia, like the mosque you see over there. What stripe of cat are you, Hamid? I don’t mean offense, but this is too close to becoming a free-fire zone for any messing around.”
“I am Shia.” Hamid used his chin to point to his man loitering by the cafe’s farthest pillar. “My second-in- command, Yussuf, he is Sunni. The man over there eating apricots, he is Christian. The one beside him is Shia like me. All my men are two things, Josh Reames. They are Iraqi first. And two, they are very good at their job. The best.”
All three of the American soldiers were watching Hamid now. Reames said to the man seated at his right, “Go get our new buddies a couple of Cokes. You’d like a Coke, wouldn’t you, Royce? They serve them warm here.”
But as Josh’s man rose from his seat, the other one said, “Heads up.”
Above the blaring horns and the music and the shouts and the din, Marc heard something new. A parade appeared around a corner and immediately dominated the market. The procession entered the stalled traffic and split like streams flowing into a river delta. Men and women alike wore knee-length black shirts and black head- kerchiefs or headbands adorned with Arabic script. Hundreds and hundreds of them, most banging tambourines or blowing reed instruments. They poured around the stalls and entered the traffic. When the group stepped into the road, the traffic horns stopped blowing.
Hamid raised his voice to be heard above the clamor. “Some Shia say twenty-eight days of Ramadan fasting not enough. So they add another week. They dance to the mosque for the prayers. They don’t like these celebrations and buying and happiness. They say this is insult to final day of fasting.”
Josh leaned across the table. “Our source tells us the attack is against these guys. We’ve been authorized to use all force necessary.”
“I must warn my men.” Hamid rose from his chair. “This could be very bad indeed.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
B ut the attack did not come.
The procession gradually filtered through the mosque’s gates opposite the police encampment. The traffic
