A s they proceeded down the street toward his office, Sameh remained gripped by the thought that Hassan’s child might somehow be connected to the missing four adults. What was more, the American had come up with this possibility. The stranger. The one who had no experience in the Arab world. Seeing connections that were supposed to be invisible.
Sameh knew his people as only one could, who was both joined to them and yet forever at a distance. He was a Christian Arab, something the most conservative elements of his society sought to extinguish. He knew how much pride his people took in being forever misunderstood. They did not trust any outsiders who thought they knew the Arab heart. His fellow Arabs loved the hidden, the secret, the myriad intricate connections that made the past live alongside the present. It was impossible that Marc Royce could be identifying an unseen link such as this.
And yet the more Sameh pondered the mystery, the more certain he became that there was indeed a connection. How, he did not need to know. Not just then. His hunches had been proven right too often in the past. And the instant Marc Royce had spoken, Sameh had known the American somehow had pierced the veil.
Major Lahm interrupted his thoughts, speaking loud enough to be heard above the traffic. “We have managed to isolate the majority of the press. They did not like it, of course. Which has been the morning’s greatest pleasure.”
“Forgive me, I was…” Sameh’s voice trailed off.
The sidewalk ahead of them was a solid wall. People jammed the front gates leading to his office building and spilled into the street. Temporary barricades had been set up, forcing the traffic from four lanes down to three. A second barricade had been established just beyond the building’s main gates. A forest of cameras and lights and shouting reporters competed with the traffic and the bleating horns and the police whistles. And the crowds.
Major Lahm and his men formed a shield and forged their way through. People filled the lobby, the stairs, the upstairs hall and his own waiting room. They waved photographs and grabbed at Sameh. Their faces were creased with fear and woe. Their eyes were red, though most had no more tears to shed.
Once Sameh was safely inside his office, Major Lahm and Marc took over crowd control. Lahm and his men worked the building’s exterior and the street. Using Leyla as translator, Marc brought a semblance of order to the people inside. Occasionally, Sameh went to the office doorway and observed Marc’s natural authority at work. The man did not raise his voice. He simply expelled a family who refused to do as he instructed. The rest reluctantly settled down and followed orders.
But even the diminished clamor remained a torture. Every voice carried the pain that shredded his nation’s soul.
Sameh and Aisha taped the children’s photographs to the walls of his office. The plan was to bring in one family at a time. Grant them the chance to examine the pictures. Name their missing child, describe any identifiable marks, and phone this through to someone at the hospital.
But the din outside Sameh’s office drilled a massive hole in this plan.
Sameh had enough experience with distressed parents to know they wanted their child back more than anything in the world. So much, in fact, that some would be willing to lie. Claim a child that was not theirs, irrationally trying to fill the vacuum at the center of their universe.
Which was when Marc appeared in the doorway and announced, “I have to go.”
“You mean, now?”
“Duboe called. He says I have to meet him. Immediately.”
Through the open door, Sameh saw a riot in the making. Leyla moved up beside Marc. “But you are needed here.”
“Major Lahm will have to assign his men.”
“They won’t be able to handle the situation as well. These people obey you.”
“I have to do this. Duboe made that absolutely clear. Lahm has a car waiting for me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
When Marc slipped away, the din began to increase in volume and tension. Sameh sensed the place might erupt. Lahm’s men were no match for an army of frantic parents. He was still struggling with this dilemma when the unbelievable happened.
The chaos beyond his door went silent.
He and Leyla and Aisha exchanged astonished glances. Leyla slipped away, then reappeared to announce, “The Imam Jaffar is here.”
– – Jaffar arrived with two young clerics in tow. Sameh checked the hall behind the trio, searching for the vizier. Jaffar said, “My father asked all his advisers to join him in Najaf. May I request a few moments of your time?”
“Please, you are welcome.”
“We do not wish to impose upon you.”
“How can a visit by the imam be an imposition? Besides which, I owe you an apology. I should have at least phoned to tell you what has happened.”
Jaffar waved his words aside. “Tell me how we can help.”
Matters were swiftly arranged. One of the dark-robed clerics accompanied Aisha down the long line of waiting families. Any family whose child had been missing for more than a year was separated out, their details taken, and sent home. Jaffar’s authority cloaked the entire assembly in a quiet solemnity. Even so, Aisha and the cleric both aged decades listening to the stories, seeing the beloved and worn photos thrust into their hands, hearing the broken pleas.
Leyla and a second cleric began leading one family at a time into Sameh’s office. Jaffar spent quite some time there, studying the photographs attached to the office walls. He did not speak as he lingered over the small frightened faces and the couples frantically scanning the walls.
Finally he motioned for Sameh to join him in the outer office. “So many tears.”
“And these are the fortunate ones.”
“Fortunate. Yes. Fortunate.” He searched the office. “Is the American here?”
“Alas, he was called away by his embassy.”
“Pity. Major Lahm says he was of great help. I had hoped to meet him.”
“He will be most disappointed to have missed you.”
“You trust him.”
Sameh nodded. “I do.”
“May I ask why?”
Sameh searched for one point that might summarize all he was coming to admire about Marc Royce. “His wife died three years ago. He sacrificed his profession to be with her. He carries the loss with him still. And yet it has not left him bitter. He cares deeply. He feels the pain of those who are suffering.”
Jaffar studied him for a long moment. “Major Lahm tells me this Royce is a friend of the missing American man.”
“Alex Baird. They worked together. They are part of the same church in America.”
“He too is a believer?”
For Sameh, the world seemed to stop. All the background noise vanished. The weeping couple in his office, Leyla’s soft voice, the murmurs rising from behind his office door, the harsh sunlight bathing them through the window to his left. All gone. There was only room for the imam’s intense gaze. The word hung in the air between them. Believer.
Jaffar must have read the shock in Sameh’s face, for he added, “That is the term the Americans use, yes? I seek only to acknowledge what so many of my associates prefer to ignore. That their beliefs are important to them. As important as ours are to us.”
“Indeed.” Sameh sought a further response but could only come up with, “Marc Royce’s faith is his own. But he strikes me as sincere. About everything.”
Jaffar turned his back to the office and asked softly, “Do you have news about the other matter?”
“Nothing direct. Only one possibility.” Sameh described the conversation that morning, about Hassan and the gardener.
When he was done, Jaffar frowned at the dust motes dancing in the sunlit air. “Hassan el-Thahie is known to me. He is Sunni and he had ties to Saddam. Which means many of my associates will carry their distrust of him to their graves.”
Sameh replied, “Hassan strikes me as a man seeking to rise above his past and carry our entire nation with him.”
For the second time that day, Jaffar surprised him. “I agree. Though I must ask that you do not share my opinion with anyone else.”
“Of course.”
“You say the American came up with this possible connection?”
“He and Major Lahm.”
“I would like to meet with this man.”
“I will make it happen. Without delay.”
“And I will make some inquiries of my own.” Jaffar lowered his voice further. “If you have anything to discuss about this matter, do not do so in writing or by phone. We should meet in person. And take great care. There are people in power who do not want us asking these questions.”
Sameh felt the old familiar chill seep into his bones. The imam’s words brought back all the fears of the Saddam era. “Why should the authorities be so concerned about one more kidnapping?”
Jaffar offered Sameh his hand and a smile that did not touch his eyes. “That is one of the questions we should never speak aloud.”