“Maybe I should drive.”
“I would appreciate that.” Only later, when they were headed down the thoroughfare, did it occur to Sameh to ask, “Did I invite you home with me?”
“Miriam did. When I phoned.”
Sameh knew he should be weary. It was, after all, the end of a long day, one of many. But he did not feel the least bit tired. He felt exhilarated. He studied the man behind the wheel of his car. “How are you feeling?”
“A little stunned. What exactly happened back there?”
“My friend, I have been asking myself the same thing. And the only answer I have is…”
“A miracle,” Marc finished softly.
It felt very good to have his thought completed by another. “One that has been two thousand years in the making.”
“First we survived a car bomb, now this.” Marc glanced over. “Two miracles in twelve hours. It’s been quite a day.”
“Hamid did not speak of miracles. He said you were the one to spot the bombers. You saved hundreds of lives. Perhaps thousands. Hamid disliked taking the credit. He says you insisted.” Sameh pointed ahead. “Take the first right off the traffic circle.”
Marc did as he was told. “Your car drives terribly.”
“You think I don’t know this? Watch out for the truck-”
“I see the truck. Where do I go now?”
“Left. Turn left. Why would you not allow Hamid to share the credit with you?”
“I’m not here to shine. I’m here to find my friend.”
“Do you see the donkey cart?”
“Yes, Sameh, I see the cart. Are you always this worried?”
Sameh winced as Marc came within millimeters of the cart’s wheel. “You remind me of my niece.”
Marc said, “It was something, working the stakeout with Hamid and Josh. It reminded me of my training days. The instructors push new recruits very hard, right to the point of total collapse. Training is meant to break you down and refashion you into part of a unit. Then you get out in the field, something goes down, and you don’t need to think. The response, the reaction comes naturally. And then you discover that you’re not just a group of guys. You’re a unit. You think and you move and the other guys are thinking and moving in tandem. I’ve never had that happen with strangers before.”
“I don’t understand what you just said,” Sameh said. “But it was good, yes?”
“Amazing.” Marc rocked slightly behind the shuddering wheel. “It was also why I didn’t need to share the credit. We were all one out there. I can’t explain it any better than that.” Marc’s phone rang. He held it to his ear, then handed it over. “Miriam.”
When Sameh came on the line, his wife demanded, “You do not think to turn on your telephone?”
“I’m sorry. I forgot.” He said in English, “Take the next left.”
“Marc is driving?”
“Yes. I was… well, he offered.”
“A guest has arrived.”
“What? Now?”
“He is standing in your living room. Have you eaten?”
“Miriam, no, but this is not the time-”
“Now is the perfect time. Where are you?”
“Three blocks away.”
“Good. We should not keep Jaffar waiting.”
Sameh looked over at Marc and said in English, “The Imam Jaffar? Now? At my home?”
“He called half an hour ago and said it was urgent. What was I to tell him?”
Marc asked, “The imam you were telling me about?”
Miriam said into his other ear, “Hurry.”
– – A dark-suited bodyguard stood beside the imam’s parked car. The aged gardener, the only house guard Sameh had ever required, stood framed by the partially opened gates. He waited until Sameh’s car pulled in, then shut and locked the gates. Clearly he was made nervous by the bodyguards’ silent presence.
Another bodyguard was stationed on the walk leading to Sameh’s front door. He offered a quiet salaam to the lawyer and a silent inspection as Marc passed.
A third guard opened the front door from within. He bowed a welcome as Sameh entered his home.
The three females of the household were excited by their unexpected visitor. Bisan stood near the imam’s chair. The imam was smiling with what appeared to be genuine pleasure. Leyla was settling a plate of delicacies on the coffee table, next to the imam’s cup of tea. Sameh could hear Miriam scurrying about in the kitchen.
Jaffar rose to his feet. “Sayyid, I beg your forgiveness for disturbing your night and your home.”
“There is nothing to apologize for, I assure you. The Imam Jaffar is always welcome.”
“You are too kind. As is your lovely family.”
They then entered into a particularly Arabic gesture. It happened between friends who came together in formal circumstances, and resembled a ritualistic tug-of-war. The one who came as a supplicant was expected to win, at which point he would bow with an imaginary kiss on the back of the other man’s hand. This gesture was left from the era of despotic kings. Any petitioner could bring a grievance before their ruler. Just as the ruler could order the death of anyone who dared disturb his day. Or his evening.
Jaffar, well versed in the art of Arabic diplomacy, swept his robes up in one hand as he leaned over Sameh’s hand. “Again, Sayyid, I beg forgiveness. But my matter could not wait.”
Sameh had encountered such entreaties for years, as much a part of the legal process as lawyers and judges. “How could the presence of the imam be anything other than an honor?”
Jaffar straightened. “And this is your new American ally.”
Only when Sameh turned did he realize how tense Marc had become. Marc clearly thought Jaffar was here to deliver bad news. So instead of introducing Marc, as was expected, he asked Jaffar in Arabic, “Do you bring word of the missing four?”
“If only I did. But my sources have heard nothing.”
Sameh turned to say in English, “Marc, the imam has no news about Alex and the others.”
“You are sure?”
“He just told me so.”
Bisan moved over and looked up at their American guest. “The imam does not lie.”
Marc allowed the girl to take his hand and lead him over to where the two men stood. Sameh gestured to the sofa. “Please join us.”
Jaffar shook Marc’s hand in the formal style, bowing slightly, then lifting his own hand to his heart, a gesture of friendship and trust. The two women stood at the entrance to the kitchen. Miriam asked, “Husband, will you and Marc take tea?”
“Please.”
Jaffar remained standing until Marc was seated. He then took the chair opposite and said to Sameh, “I would be most grateful if you would please translate.”
“It would be my honor.”
Jaffar possessed a prince’s demeanor, firm and compassionate at the same time. His voice was mild in the manner of one who had trained himself to give nothing away, most especially his passion, which Sameh suspected ran very deep. “I have heard of the Sayyid Marc’s role in finding the children. I have heard how he assisted Hamid Lahm and his team in being released from their prison duties. I have heard how he saved a mosque and a market full of lives. Of all these things that I have heard, there is one event that has touched me more deeply than all the others. Shall I tell you what that one thing is?”
As Sameh translated, he observed Jaffar’s bodyguard drifting silently into the room’s opposite side. Sameh found himself wondering when, if ever, the imam had seated himself with an American who did not represent Washington powers.
While Sameh finished translating, Marc turned to smile his thanks as Leyla set a cup of tea before him.
Jaffar continued, “When I heard how Marc Royce was so deeply affected by the reunion between abducted