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.
The Grand Imam was followed by Major Hamid Lahm and another old man. This second elder glared at Marc. He needed no introduction to know this was the vizier.
The hospital director nervously turned and spoke to the Grand Imam. His only response was a slight wave of his cane. The director bowed himself from the room.
Jaffar gently drew his father forward to where Marc stood. Sameh and his family had all moved to the opposite corner of the room, near the window. The imam had to twist his head slightly in order to meet Marc’s gaze. His eyes were rheumy but brilliant in their intensity. His voice reminded Marc of tree branches creaking in the wind.
There followed a brief silence. Then Bisan spoke softly with Sameh. He hesitated, then nodded. Bisan walked over to stand between Marc and the imam. She said softly, “The imam thanks you for the life of his son.”
“Please tell him it was an honor to be of service to Jaffar and his family.”
When the young girl had translated, the imam patted Bisan’s cheek and smiled. He spoke to her. Bisan responded. The imam nodded and spoke again. The two of them conversed for a moment. The imam cast Marc a sharp glance, one laden with meaning.
“The imam,” Bisan told him, “he says I am a gift to my family. He asks of my parents. I say, this is my mother. My father I lost to Saddam. The imam says he is sorry that a child has faced such loss. He says we are a people joined by suffering.”
Marc met the old man’s gaze and remained still, watchful.
“The imam, he says he hears your name everywhere. He hears you are a friend to the Iraqi people. A man who can be trusted. The imam asks if what he hears is true.”
Marc did not know what to say. His silence proved to be the best possible response. Major Hamid Lahm said something. When he was finished, Sameh followed with something longer. Then Miriam. And Leyla. And Jaffar. And finally Bisan. All the while, the imam’s gaze rested upon Marc.
When the room was silent once more, the imam spoke at length. Sameh’s quick intake of breath turned all eyes toward him. Major Lahm locked gazes with Sameh and gave a terse nod. Miriam and Leyla murmured together in the manner of women sharing deep sorrow.
Sameh stepped forward. “Bisan, let me be the one to speak these words.”
Something in Sameh’s gaze silenced the girl. She gripped Marc’s hand and took a single step toward the window. The imam watched this and smiled. Marc had the impression that very little escaped this man’s attention.
Sameh told Marc, “We have just learned that last night seven children were kidnapped. And a newly wedded woman. And an aged grandmother who is ill with diabetes. All taken in the same hour that we were attacked at our home.”
The imam seemed impatient now, speaking again before Sameh finished translating. Sameh’s voice quickened to keep up. “The three attackers at our home will survive their wounds, as will Jaffar’s bodyguards. It is the one bright spot from this night of sorrow and loss, that no one was killed. The imam says the attackers have been questioned by Major Lahm. He has confirmed they are Iranians.”
The vizier sucked in a quick breath and opened his mouth. The imam glanced over. The one look was enough to silence him.
“The imam says that all the families who suffered losses this night are involved with the new coalition. The imam finds this very interesting. He finds it especially interesting that one of the attackers at our home has also confirmed that he is a member of the Revolutionary Guard.”
This time, the vizier would not be silenced by a look. He spat out words that were ignored by everyone. Most especially the imam, who continued to address Marc.
“The Revolutionary Guard is the direct arm of the ayatollahs. The religious elite of Iran claim to be the strongest supporters of the imam. They also claim to be Iraq’s closest friends. They say over and over how they only have Iraq’s best interests at hand. How can this be, the imam wonders, when the Guard is discovered to be involved in such atrocities? The imam has no choice but to question Iran’s motives. This is very hard for him, because he studied there and maintains close contact with scholars in that country. The imam says he still dreams in Farsi. He feels his heart will always be bound by both of these countries, the nation that is his by birth, and the nation that harbored him and his family while Saddam drenched his home country in the blood of innocents.”
The vizier’s voice had risen to fill the room with an incessant whine, like a dentist’s drill. But the imam continued to hold Marc with his gaze. Sameh lifted his voice above the vizier’s. “The imam says all the people affected by last night’s tragedy have today resigned from the new political party known as the Alliance. These nine politicians will only say that they have reconsidered their position and decided that the religious conservatives should form the new government. The imam says he cannot help but question this, even though he was instrumental in founding the conservative party. How can this be right, he asks himself, if the conservatives win because of pressure from Iran?”
Then the imam said something that cut off the vizier’s complaints abruptly. The man’s jaw hung open as he gaped at the imam.
Sameh translated, “The imam says he has nothing with which to repay you except a gift of trust. The imam has decided that the day after tomorrow, he will address the people of Iraq. He will say that he was wrong to distrust the Americans. He will say that he fears the Iranian government has not been truthful with him or with the people of Iraq. He will say that although the nation has suffered greatly during the war and the occupation that followed, the Americans have done their best to restore order and democracy. He will urge the newly elected officials to set aside their differences and form a government of national unity.”
The imam started to turn away, then smiled at Bisan and motioned her forward. The old man leaned down and spoke briefly into her ear. He patted her cheek, nodded to Marc, and motioned for his son to usher him from the room.
Major Lahm remained in the doorway, head turned toward the imam’s slow retreat down the hallway. He stepped into the room. “What the imam says is true. Nine of the top Alliance officials have just announced their resignations.”
Marc said, “Follow Jaffar. See if you can have a private word with him. We need access to Taufiq’s closest friends.”
Lahm squinted. “This is urgent?”
“I think they just might hold the key,” Marc said.
When Lahm had departed, Sameh asked Bisan, “What did the imam say to you?”
Bisan looked at Marc. “The imam says, bring proof and do so swiftly, or we will both be silenced.”