murmurs of respect, the formal words that carried centuries of significance. They greeted Sameh as they would a caliph.
Even Leyla became surrounded by her own admirers. She gave Sameh a bewildered glance over the head of a gentleman who bowed a formal greeting. Sameh was further amazed when a senior judge offered him the obeisance of a supplicant. The judge was replaced by a total stranger who, in the space of shaking his hand, offered Sameh a month’s work.
Finally, Hassan’s bodyguard fit himself into the crowd and said, “Effendi, Hassan awaits you in the Records chamber.”
Sameh courteously levered himself away and followed the bodyguard down the hall and into the chamber where he had first met Jaffar. The memory of how the gathered attorneys and clerks had greeted the imam merged with what had just happened in the foyer. He found the dual images disturbing, as though he were being drawn into an alien world.
Hassan rose from the bench by the rear wall. He said in a voice meant to carry, “Thank you for coming. I would not have asked, but there is a matter of some urgency.” Hassan indicated the man who had risen to stand alongside him. “Perhaps you know Farouk el-Waziri.”
“I have not yet had the honor.”
“Effendi, please,” the man said. “The honor is mine.”
To have one of the most powerful businessmen in Baghdad salaam him in the ancient manner left Sameh no response but, “This reception I have received today leaves me most uncomfortable.”
Hassan showed the first hint of his old self, the humor of a man long used to wielding power. “You have become known as a friend of the Americans. You are the man who gets things done.”
Farouk el-Waziri agreed. “The television shows images of you entering your office. The entire country sees how families reach out to you in supplication. And yet your name is not mentioned. Not even by the justice minister, when he stands so that the plaque on your office building is directly above his head.”
“I did not see it,” Sameh acknowledged.
“You were the only one in Iraq who missed it,” Hassan said.
“Not to mention how the Imam Jaffar is singing your praises and seeking you out,” Farouk noted. “You are the friend everyone needs.”
Hassam put in, “And who else has managed to rescue a hundred stolen children?”
“Forty-seven,” Sameh corrected.
Hassan waved the correction aside. “You are the man who wields power yet chooses to remain hidden.”
“You care so deeply, you risk your life to bring these children home,” Farouk added. “You put other people’s lives before your own.”
Hassan said, “You are the Mu-allam.”
Despite the heat, Sameh shivered. The title was from beyond the reach of time. It meant a venerated man of wisdom. An interpreter of life’s direction. A man to be trusted with the darkest of secrets. Sameh said, “I cannot express how much I dislike all this.”
Hassan’s humor was a mere glint in dark eyes. “You will grow accustomed to it. But I doubt you will ever like it much.”
“No man of honor ever does,” Farouk said. “From this day forward, few people will approach you simply because of who you are. Everyone will want something from you. Your every meeting will be charged with the risk that you will have to refuse an entreaty. And thus make an enemy in the process.”
Sameh managed to put aside his discomfort and study the man standing beside Hassan. He had of course known of Farouk el-Waziri, leader of one of Iraq’s oldest merchant families. The man was small in stature, with a round face and long strands of gray hair combed over a large bald pate. His mustache was wispy, his eyes watery and small.
Sameh asked, “Why am I here?”
Hassan pulled a thick envelope from his pocket and handed it over. “Farouk wishes to purchase a tract of land for his new olive oil processing facility. I have agreed to sell it to him. I am asking you to handle the transaction.”
“It would be my honor.” Sameh inspected the documents. “These seem to be in order.”
“File them, please, with the registrar,” Hassan said. “We will wait.”
Bemused, Sameh approached the counter. The senior clerk awaited him with the same eager respect Sameh had last seen when Jaffar had stood at his side. The clerk offered a formal salaam and rushed to do his bidding. Sameh watched the man and two of his aides hurry through the registration process. He felt bewildered and uncertain about what was happening to his life.
What was more, the presence of the two powerful men behind him was baffling. This was the kind of registration process Sameh would normally have assigned to his assistant, expecting her to be delayed here for most of the day. To have two business owners wait while papers were stamped and the sale recorded made no sense at all.
Sameh walked over to where the two men were seated in a corner and asked again, “Why am I here?”
Hassan waved him to the neighboring bench and lowered his voice. “I did as you requested. I inquired around. And now I am being watched.”
“As am I,” Farouk agreed. “So I suggested we mask this meeting by doing so in public.”
“Why we are watched, we have no idea. But perhaps your suspicions were correct. There is the possibility the two disappearances are tied together.”
Sameh asked Farouk, “Have you received a ransom demand?”
“I heard nothing until yesterday evening. An hour after Hassan visited me, I received a call. On my private line. A man’s voice told me if I stop meddling, my son will be returned to me.”
Hassan said, “Tell him the rest.”
Farouk el-Waziri continued, “They said I must order you to stop as well.”
“But you and I have never met before now,” Sameh quietly protested.
“Which is exactly what I told them,” Farouk said. “They grew angry and shouted that the life of Taufiq depended upon my doing exactly what they ordered.”
“Do you want me to discontinue the search?”
Farouk exchanged a glance with Hassan. “I have no reason to trust them. I have every reason to trust you.”
“I am deeply touched by your words. But you must understand, your son and the three Americans have been missing now for over a week, and we have no evidence…” Farouk’s expression forced him to stop. “Forgive me.”
“No, no, you merely give voice to the fears that plague my every waking hour.”
“Can you describe the voice?”
“Male, young, brutal, harsh.” His expression turned queasy with the memory. “Perhaps he was not an Iraqi.”
“He had an accent?” When Farouk hesitated, Sameh gently pressed, “Was it Persian?”
“Yes. Perhaps.”
Hassan said, “I approached my closest ally in the government. He wriggled like a fish on a hook, but it appears that the disappearance of these four may somehow be related to the current struggles within the government.”
“In what way?”
Hassan leaned closer. “It appears the opposition may be ready to form a new coalition.”
This was enormous. Since the fall of Saddam, Iraq had been governed by a cluster of religious parties, all of them Shia. As a result, both the Kurds in the north and the Sunni minority had felt excluded from governing and sidelined from doing business with the regime. Extremists within both groups had begun fomenting rebellion.
Two years earlier, a new political party had been formed, one that sought to reach beyond religious and tribal boundaries. They sought to duplicate the American system, with a clear separation between religious bodies and the government. This new Alliance had done far better than anyone had expected in the recent elections, coming in second by less than a hundred thousand votes.
To have the new party form a government was something Sameh had yearned for but never thought would
