brought them together professionally. Leyla, the elfin sprite whose laughter had brightened their world for years, had withdrawn into the dark garb and mood of widowhood. Miriam had suggested they bring Leyla into the world her husband had formerly occupied. Give her the sense of carrying on where her husband had left off. Bringing justice and honesty to those in their most vulnerable hour.
Leyla glanced over at him. She must have sensed the reason behind his mood, for she asked, “Do you ever think back on our first days working together?”
“Every time you sit behind the wheel,” Sameh replied.
“You taught me to drive,” Leyla said. “You thought it would give you more time to think.”
“Instead, it impelled me to pray harder.” Sameh pointed ahead. “Watch out for the bus.”
Normally such suggestions only led to argument. This time, though, Leyla simply asked, “Has it ever done any good to say such things to me?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
She was forced to stop, hemmed in on all sides by immobile traffic. She tried to create a gap between a truck and a derelict van, and was rewarded with blaring horns and words shouted through open windows. Normal Iraqi etiquette was forgotten the instant drivers sat behind the wheel. She said, “I know what you want to ask me.”
Sameh kept his gaze on the car sweltering in front of them.
“You want to know if Bisan and I would leave Iraq without you. And take Miriam to America with us.”
Sameh felt his throat close up from more than heat and exhaust.
“Miriam will not leave Baghdad unless you come with her,” Leyla said. “No amount of argument will change her mind. It will only hurt her. I beg you not to even try.”
Sameh nodded at her wisdom. “And you?”
“For Bisan, I would do it. For her life. For her future.” Leyla wiped her cheek with a shaky hand. “Though I will miss you both with every breath. And it will break Miriam’s heart. And Bisan’s.”
Sameh wanted to say, and his as well. But speech was impossible just then. Instead, he reached over and took her hand. But when he felt the warm wetness on her fingertips, his constricted heart felt like it cracked wide open.
It was almost a relief when his phone rang. Sameh released his grip in order to pull it from his jacket. He read the number and coughed hard enough to force air into his lungs. “I must take this. It is Duboe from the embassy.”
“Come with us,” Leyla said, her voice quavering with the effort it required to plead. “For Bisan.”
Sameh opened the phone and said, “Regretfully, I cannot come to the embassy now.”
Barry Duboe asked, “But you’re interested in accepting the ambassador’s offer of green cards?”
Sameh glanced at Leyla and said, “Very much.”
“Okay, you’ve got a stay of execution. Did you hear about what your boys have been up to?”
The realization flashed in the wavering heat. “Not the explosion we just heard.”
“Right the first time.”
Leyla looked over in alarm. “Marc was at the blast? Is he all right?”
Sameh lifted his hand. Wait. “What happened?”
“The bombers were targeting that mosque by the big market. What’s it called?”
“El Shorjeh.”
Leyla exclaimed, “Tell me Marc is all right!”
Barry Duboe must have heard her, for he said, “All the white hats walked away safe and sound.”
When Sameh passed on the news, Leyla removed her hands from the steering wheel and clasped them together in prayer. He rested his hand on her shoulder as he said into the phone, “Tell me what happened.”
“Your guy and his mates were apparently camped out on the square. They spotted the incoming bombers and diverted them to an alley. How exactly, I’ve not a clue. But they did. The blast took out all the windows for blocks, maybe caused some structural damage to the nearest buildings. But only the bombers were killed.”
Sameh murmured his thanks to the Almighty. “Where are they now?”
“They got scratched up by flying debris. A doctor at the police camp across from the mosque is giving them a head-to-toe. Major Lahm is the man of the hour. And he has been talking to the press about what a great job the Americans did. How they are Iraq’s great friends. How we will be allies for a thousand years. Blah, blah. He hasn’t named our guy. But everybody at the embassy knows, especially Boswell. Which means nobody dares move against you or Marc. We’ve spent years trying to build the sort of bridges your man has created in a few days.”
“So Lahm has publicly described an unnamed American as an honored friend of all the Iraqi people?”
“Matter of fact, I’ve got the transcript right here. The translator had trouble with one word. Lugal. He wrote it down, must have thought it was important.”
“Lugal is not Arabic. It is Sumerian.”
Leyla looked at him in astonishment. “Someone called Marc a lugal? Who?”
“Hamid.”
“The policeman called Marc a lugal?”
“It is on the radio.”
Duboe said in Sameh’s ear, “Who are you talking with?”
“Leyla, my niece. She is driving me to court.”
“Way that lady drives, she ought to aim for the nearest hospital. Tell me why this lugal thing is important.”
“It comes from Gilgamesh. Our earliest story. It means a champion. A hero. Like a lion.” Actually, it meant more than that. A lugal could be trusted with the fate of the nation. Educated Iraqis who heard this would be astonished. Sameh could not recall an American ever being described in such a manner.
“Whatever,” Duboe said. “The thing is, Lahm said it first. Then he met with the justice minister. Now the minister is echoing the major. They’re all talking about you as well. By name. How you are the glue that’s binding all this together, making it such a success. So now everybody at the embassy is treading lightly. I just met with the ambassador. Marc has bought you a couple more days.” Duboe’s next words were lost to a rush of sound. He shouted, “Hang on a second. There’s an incoming chopper.”
When the noise died, Sameh asked, “You are outside?”
“Well, duh. You think I would be calling you around listening ears? I’ve been given some space to maneuver. Not much, but a little. If you can come up with something, maybe I can help.”
Sameh thanked him and put away the phone. Leyla drove into the courthouse parking lot, showed their IDs, tolerated the vehicle inspection, then asked, “Can we trust this Duboe?”
“That,” Sameh replied, “is something for our lugal to decide.”
Chapter Thirty
S ameh noticed the change before he even stepped into the courthouse. On the final day of Ramadan, even less work than normal was being accomplished. Which made Hassan’s urgent request for a courthouse meeting rather extraordinary.
The feast officially began after the new moon was sighted. The most conservative believers fasted through the final night as well, then began the celebrations at dawn. But the majority of Muslims started in at sundown. As expected, Sameh found the courthouse filled with an air of jubilant relief, a blissful abandonment of the disagreeable thirst and hunger that had dominated life for four long weeks.
Sameh himself generally tried to be home well before sundown on Eid ul-Fitr. Extremists occasionally treated the festival as a reason to attack Christians and the few remaining Iraqi Jews. Which was why, as he and Leyla entered the foyer, he promised, “I will not stay a moment longer than necessary.”
One of Hassan’s bodyguards was stationed in the front foyer. As he started to approach Sameh and Leyla, the entire room’s focus shifted. People halted their conversations and moved toward Sameh. This much was customary. He had, after all, been officiating cases in these chambers for over a quarter of a century. But nothing before had ever resembled today’s reception. Gone was the traditional humor, the friendly inclusion, the soft welcome of old acquaintances. Instead, Sameh faced a new formality. He was greeted with hands upon hearts, the
