Lion of Babylon (21 page)

Jaffar's eyes closed as he began reciting from memory a series of
ayas
, Koranic verses that spoke of Jesus and his miracles. Marc's expression showed his astonishment as Sameh translated.

Jaffar went on, “The Koran has many names for Jesus. He is called ‘The Righteous One, The Pure One, The One Without Sin, The Word of Truth, God's Witness, The Bringer of Good News, The Intercessor, The Straight Path, The Word of God.' ” Jaffar paused, then finished with one final name: “ ‘The True Path to Follow.' ”

Sameh had no idea how long they sat there, the three of them, locked in silence. Then from upstairs came the chimes of the hall clock. Jaffar glanced at his watch. It was enough to return them to the room and the issues at hand.

Marc said, “I had expected the church to be the connection point. But the pastors had never heard of Taufiq.”

“And I have never heard of this church. Though that is hardly a surprise.”

“Taufiq never mentioned to you any connection with the other three?”

Jaffar settled back in his seat. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Not in so many words. Taufiq and I share many interests. Even so, he would understand that some things are better left unsaid. He knows I face serious challenges.”

“The vizier,” Marc offered.

“The vizier on his own is nothing. He is an old man who should leave the halls of power and spend the remainder of his days in some dusty classroom, tending his books and troubling his students. It is who the vizier represents that threatens and troubles. If they caught the faintest hint of this conversation, they would . . .”

Sameh stopped translating. He had no choice. For Marc no longer sat facing him.

One moment the three of them had been seated together, speaking of mysteries beyond the night. The next the American had somehow transported himself across the room. Marc crouched where the parlor joined with the front hall, peering at the front door. Then he lowered himself further and checked out the front window.

The only sound was Jaffar's tightly indrawn breath. Marc raised one hand, a small but unambiguous command to freeze. Which both men did.

Marc whispered, “The house has a rear entrance?”

Sameh's heart was suddenly crowding out his breath. “Not to the outside. All interior doors open onto the courtyard, which is enclosed.”

“What about a safe room? A cellar, maybe.”

Then Sameh heard it. A faint cough, like the night was choking. “Through the kitchen.”

“Go.”

“But—”

“Now. When you're safe, call Hamid. Jaffar, alert your headquarters.”

Sameh was in the process of rising when he heard another sound. Frantic slap-slaps upon the floor.

Bisan raced across the living room, her arms outstretched, her face contorted in silent panic.

Bisan had been listening. The women probably had no idea the girl had slipped back into the dining room. And now the child feared losing someone else who had earned a place in her life. All this Sameh processed mentally in the space it took to draw one breath and shout one word, “Bisan!”

Marc's reaction was even faster. He spun and caught the young girl, lifting her off the floor. He threw her across the room into Sameh's outstretched arms. Her astonishment was so great she did not make a sound.

The impact tumbled Sameh onto the sofa, catching Jaffar on the shoulder as he fell. The two men scrambled back to their feet, Bisan held tightly in Sameh's arms. They started toward the two women now crowding the dining room entrance.

But it was too late. The front door splintered.

Marc was in position, crouched down and behind the hall cupboard. The portal smacked the wall on the cupboard's other side. A man of the night leaped inside, attired in midnight clothing with a baklava over his head. A figure of death and doom. Black eyes glittered through the openings as they tracked over the living room and fixed on Sameh and Bisan and Jaffar.

His gun arm came up in another fluid motion, matched only by Marc's sudden appearance at the attacker's side.

Sameh gripped Bisan even tighter and crouched down to the tiles, covering her body with his own. Marc gripped the attacker's gun arm in one hand, not going for the weapon but merely shoving the man's aim upward. It was like watching ballet, two superbly skilled and talented dancers twisting to the music of death.

The gun gave off a series of sharp coughs. The elongated barrel flamed brightly as bullets chopped dusty divots from the parlor ceiling.

Marc's other hand struck with blurring speed. Three, four, five, six blows, first to the abdomen and then the ribs and finally the neck. The attacker's eyelids fluttered.

Marc waltzed the man around while the gun still fired, forcing the gun arm back down so that bullets struck the second man who piled through the door. Marc ripped the gun from the first assassin's hands and smacked him hard with the weapon on the forehead. Marc spun swiftly and fired through the now-empty doorway.

The machine pistol clicked on an empty chamber. Marc crouched and patted down the prostrate attacker. He shouted over his shoulder,
“ Everyone out! Go! ”

Sameh scrambled up from the floor and bundled Bisan into the dining room. Miriam and Leyla stood there with outstretched arms. They clustered together and ran through the portal into the kitchen. The last Sameh saw of Marc was the man slapping a fresh clip into the machine pistol and disappearing into the night.

Together they rushed into the cellar. Sameh's hands were trembling so hard he could not punch the numbers into his phone. His breath caught in a ragged cough matching the imam's.

There was a knock on the cellar door. Marc called softly, “It's me.”

Leyla rushed over and unlatched it. Marc slipped inside. “Lock it.”

“Where are they?”

“I think they're down. But I can't be certain. I didn't want to move beyond the wall.” He looked over the frightened faces. “You all okay?”

“Yes.” Sameh's voice sounded much more confident than he felt.

“Good. Everybody into the corner. Sameh, you and Jaffar make those calls.”

They crouched down, a huddle of panicked breathing. The women whispered quiet comfort to Bisan. The cellar's bare bulb illuminated their lone protector standing in the center of the concrete floor, gun up and aimed at the door.

Only when Major Hamid Lahm answered the phone did Sameh notice the stain spreading down Marc's arm.

Chapter Thirty-Five

T
hey brought Marc to the same hospital where they had taken the children. Hamid Lahm drove him in a police Land Cruiser, talking into his phone most of the way. Sameh and Bisan rode along, Marc between them in the back seat. Jaffar's bodyguards had left earlier in an ambulance. One had been wounded in the leg, another had a probable concussion, the third had taken a bullet in the shoulder. The police had bundled the immobile attackers into another vehicle and sped off. Miriam and Leyla remained at the house with two of Hamid's team, promising to follow shortly. Bisan had insisted on coming with them. Sameh had reluctantly agreed, as it would have taken precious time to convince her otherwise.

They were followed by another Land Cruiser holding two more police. A boxy Mercedes, the car of Jaffar's father, took up the rear. The Grand Imam's bodyguards had arrived in short order, intending to take Jaffar straight back to the family compound. But Jaffar was having none of that. Either they took him to the hospital where the wounded men were being treated, or he would travel in Hamid's SUV.

Bisan gripped Marc's hand and leaned forward to hold Sameh's hand as well. Twice Marc asked if she was all right. The first time, she did not respond. The second, she asked if it hurt, being shot. Marc said he had simply been grazed. She stared at the blood leaking around the compress bandage attached to his arm and did not say another word.

There was hardly a better way to arrive at a Baghdad hospital than by police SUV with flashing lights, followed by Imam Jaffar. They were escorted into the emergency room and personally greeted by a bespectacled man in a dark suit. Sameh introduced him as the hospital director. Marc tried to apologize for all the fuss over a simple flesh wound. But it was doubtful the director heard a word he said, busy as he was welcoming the imam.

The same doctor who had supervised the care of the rescued children also was there to greet them. He had the weary and rumpled look of a man drawn from a deep sleep. The doctor shooed out the crowd, then peeled off the bandage and tut-tutted over Marc's wound. But when Marc expressed regret for bothering him and his staff over a trifle, the doctor said, “Is true what I hear, you save the imam?”

Marc did not respond.

The doctor nodded, as though Marc's silence was the answer he expected. “The imam is not here because of this wound. He is here to thank you for his life.”

There was a muffled discussion in the hall. Marc heard Jaffar's voice. The doctor translated, “The imam says, his guards have come out of surgery. They are stable.”

Marc waited while the doctor injected a local anesthetic, sewed the wound shut, and gave him a second shot of antibiotics. Then he asked, “Would you mind checking my ribs?”

“Another wound here?”

“Not tonight. I was in the vicinity of a car bomb.”

“Ah. The market. Yes, I heard the blast here in hospital. Then we wait and no phone rings. You understand?”

“No incoming wounded.”

“Yes, is so. You save us from another bad day. The market, the mosque, the police station. Very bad.” He took surgical scissors from the tray. “Please to lift arms.”

He snipped Marc's shirt off, then carefully probed the ribs. “I am thinking no breaks. But I will wrap for the night, give time for, how you say it, muscles to ease.”

“Inflammation.”

“You will please to take pills to reduce this. And for pain. You have a place to sleep without danger?”

“I'm staying at the Hotel Al-Hamra.”

The doctor sniffed his disdain. “You will stay here. And sleep. Without worry, yes? Tomorrow much better.”

Marc thanked him and sat while the doctor left to make arrangements. Marc actually had hoped they might give him a bed. He knew his wounds weren't serious, and the doctor would have known this also. To the medical community in Baghdad, bruised ribs and a grazed upper arm were nothing. But the two attacks had left Marc weakened. His body ached, his mind was sluggish. He wanted a night without danger in a place where he could safely relax.

A male nurse entered the cubicle, pushing a truly ancient wheelchair. Marc knew argument over walking to his assigned room was futile, so he lowered himself into it and allowed the nurse to push him out of the examination room and into the hallway. Bisan's face contracted at the sight of him in a wheelchair with his strapped chest and bandaged arm. The doctor spoke in soothing tones, and both Sameh and Jaffar placed hands upon the child's shoulders. Marc said simply, “It's fine. You're safe, I'm all fixed up and in good hands here.”

He was taken to a private room with a view of the illuminated barrier wall. The periphery lights were so bright they pierced the closed drapes. But Marc seriously doubted the light would bother him at all.

The room was a throwback to a different era. The linoleum floor was so worn the concrete underneath showed through in patches. Overhead a fluorescent light buzzed faintly. A mosquito net was bundled to one side of the bed, and a ceiling fan rattled as it turned. The bed was metal and had to be cranked by hand. But everything was spotlessly clean and smelled of disinfectant.

Jaffar, Sameh, Bisan, and Hamid Lahm all crowded into the room as the nurse helped him into the bed. The attendant turned to scold them, and when they did not listen, he shooed them out with unmistakable gestures.

Bisan swept under the nurse's arms and rushed over to wrap her arms around Marc's neck. He lay where he was, his arms to his sides, uncertain what to do. Finally, Sameh came and gently pried the girl's hands away. “Wish our friend a safe and restful night.”

Bisan's eyes were wet. She looked at him but did not speak.

Sameh said to Marc, “I have spoken with Miriam. We will move into a hotel tonight. For the child, you understand? The police will be in our home for hours more.”

“A good idea.”

Hamid Lahm said, “We will post guards at the house and their hotel room. And here.”

Jaffar said nothing. He gave Marc a fraction of a bow, a long look, then joined the nervous hospital administrator in the hallway.

The nurse ushered the rest of them out, then returned with a paper cup of pills and a glass of water. He watched Marc take them, then said something in Arabic that needed no translation.

Marc was asleep before the nurse turned out the lights.

———

Marc struggled to open his eyes and slowly moved his head. The clock over the door read half past nine. It had been years since he had slept so late. His last dream had been about Alex and the first time they had ever discussed faith. The image lingered, his voice so clear that Marc could hear it still.

Alex had been prepping him for a mission to Ecuador. They had taken their work with them to dinner, Marc's last meal before flying south. Their profession usually stressed attitudes of compartmentalization and intense privacy. But that night Alex had described what the field did to men, drenching them in adrenaline, turning them into stone-cold operatives. Marc had known Alex's wife had left him a few years ago. Alex had confessed that he had not been strong enough to hold on to what was gentle and good and genuine, not without help from beyond. Unfortunately, he had not discovered this until it had been too late to save his marriage.

Marc's response had seemed to spring from something outside himself. He told Alex that when he went on a mission, it felt as though he left his faith behind. Just like he hung up the suit he wore to the office and donned field gear. Simple as that. After he had finished speaking, Marc had felt ashamed. He wished he had not spoken at all. Then Alex had replied that he could have said the exact same words.“Maybe you're stronger than me, able to take on these duties and remain fully intact. Down deep where it matters. I hope so. Far as I'm concerned, I need God close as breath to stay whole.”

That had been just like Alex, putting the eternal in straight and simple terms. Making it live for an intelligence agent so amped by the coming action he could hardly hear himself think, much less keep room for faith.

Later that evening, when Alex had driven him to the airfield and the waiting transport, it had seemed a natural thing to pray together before Marc left the car. And to call the man brother upon his return.

———

Marc's room had a private shower. None of the hospital ward's staff spoke English, but they understood what he wanted, and a nurse helped him unwrap his ribs and put a waterproof cover on his arm bandage. He stayed under the shower until his skin felt parboiled. Emerging lobster red, he dressed in the hospital blues the nurse had left out for him. He wheeled the bed against the wall to grant him maximum floor space and went through a series of stretches. Whenever his ribs or his arm came dangerously close to unbearable pain, he eased off a fraction, waited, then continued the stretch. The nurse came in several times, shook his head, and retreated.

An hour and a half later, he was returning to bed when his cellphone rang. Sameh asked, “How did you sleep?”

“Almost too well.”

“I'm most happy to hear that.” The lawyer sounded exhausted. “Miriam says, please do yourself a favor and don't touch the hospital food. She and Leyla are preparing you a meal.”

“They shouldn't concern themselves—”

“Please, don't even start.” Sameh was halted by women's voices in the background. “Leyla asks if you wish for anything special.”

“That is the best word to describe all the food they've made for me,” Marc replied. “Special.”

Sameh might have smiled. “You certainly do know how to charm Iraqi women. We are now at the house. Miriam says we should be with you in an hour.”

Marc declined breakfast but accepted the nurse's offer of tea. He drank half a dozen cups and ate a single piece of cold flatbread. The night's rest had left him feeling not merely better but restored. He settled back in bed, arranging the pillows so he could look at the view through the window. Every time the door opened, he could see one of Lahm's men seated in the hall. He liked the feeling of safety. It granted him an opportunity to sort through the jumble of experiences, and analyze.

He imagined he was preparing a report for Ambassador Walton. Marc's former boss had always preferred a dual approach. First, Walton demanded a terse march along the timeline. Then he ordered everything be relisted in terms of relative importance. The ambassador used this as a means of judging whether his investigators were focusing the proper amount of time and resources on the various options. These two-track discussions also exposed possible fault lines and areas that had been overlooked.

Marc was still involved in his analysis when a knock on the door announced the arrival of Sameh and his family. Bisan rushed over and greeted him the same way she had said farewell, wrapping her arms around his neck. Miriam and Leyla clucked over the child's exuberance, but they smiled as well. The two women wore brightly colored headscarves and long gray mantles, a modest combination of robe and summer coat.

Leyla stood at the foot of his bed and asked how he had slept. Hamid's officer, one who had joked with him at the market square, walked in bearing a portable table. After a glance in Leyla's direction, he grinned at Marc and drew his finger across his throat.

Marc was still attired in threadbare hospital blues. He was very glad when Sameh said they had stopped by his hotel and handed over the backpack. While the women spread out a tablecloth and dishes, Marc went into the bathroom to change.

The women unloaded a portable feast. Marc ate and ate, the three females hovering over him. Eventually they were joined by Marc's doctor, two nurses, the police officer, and a medical technician. The hospital staff brought their own plates and utensils, as though such impromptu meals were a regular part of their lives. Folding chairs were set up by the window. Bisan stood by Marc's side, at his nod occasionally lifting a bite from his plate to her mouth.

When they all were finished, two nurses brought trays filled with fragrant glasses of mint tea. Another pair of doctors appeared in the doorway. All the while they conversed in Arabic. Sometimes Sameh translated, sometimes Bisan, occasionally Leyla. Marc scarcely heard what was being said. His mind and heart were held by the sense of family, of being accepted at a level so strong and deep, their presence filled him with a gratitude he could not express.

Someone in the doorway glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widened, and he said something Marc did not understand. A single word. And everything changed.

All the visitors rose to their feet as two bodyguards and the hospital director came into view. Then a very old man shuffled into the room. His hair was hidden beneath a black turban that matched his silk robes. His wispy beard was snow white. His bones appeared fragile as bird's wings. One arthritic hand held a polished cane, the other rested upon Jaffar's outstretched arm.

The assembled hospital staff murmured awestruck greetings. The Grand Imam croaked out a quiet response. At a nod from the hospital director, the staff quietly slipped from the room. Jaffar's father gave no indication he noticed their departure.