I needed until this morning to fit it all together,” Sameh told them after they had dressed and climbed into the car. “When I woke up, two memories had bonded. One was of Marc battling with the ambassador’s aide on our behalf, protecting us against future risks that I would never have imagined even existed. The other was of standing in the underground church, holding the hand of Marc on one side and a Sunni or a Shia on the other. I don’t even know which.”
They followed Sameh’s new bodyguards, who drove a navy blue Hyundai. The women’s security detail remained tight behind them in another vehicle. Sameh had insisted on driving himself so they could continue their conversation in private. The three women watched him with a singular intensity. Leyla said, “Tell us why this was so important, Uncle.”
“All my life, my first instinct upon meeting a person has been to identify their background. It is so ingrained as to be subconscious. I name them as American, Sunni, Shia, Persian, Kurd. But that moment in the church, we were all simply people in need. Imperfect and wounded and broken. And I saw the answer was Jesus.” They slowed for a traffic circle, which was good, for the recollection left Sameh with blurred eyes. “It seems so simple, speaking these words. But I feel as though barriers have fallen from my mind. From my heart.”
They were silent as Sameh steered the old Peugeot into the stream of early morning staffers approaching the first Green Zone checkpoint. The traffic crawled forward, making slow but steady progress. Roving guards walked between the lines of cars, inspecting each through the windows. Sameh said, “In that moment, there was no religion. No creed. Just the fact that Jesus lives. I feel…”
When he hesitated, Bisan pressed, “Tell us, Uncle.”
“When I look back, I feel I have used my heritage and my church as a means of keeping others at arm’s length. I am Sameh el-Jacobi. I uphold an ancient Christian tradition. I am this. I am that. But as I look back upon that moment, holding hands together, I realize that I need to spend more time simply being a servant of Jesus.”
Miriam said, “I would like to go with you to that underground church, husband.”
“And I,” Leyla said.
“Me too, Uncle,” Bisan said.
“Nothing would give me more pleasure than to share this experience with my family.” He reached over. “Passports, everyone.”
The Iraqi soldier accepted their papers, then astonished them all by coming to attention and snapping off a salute. “Mr. el-Jacobi. You and your family are expected, sir.”
“Pardon me?”
“Your escort is that Jeep.” The soldier fitted a whistle to his lips and blew a sharp blast. The barrier that was lifted only for presidential convoys rose into the clear dawn air. “Your guards can wait in the small lot there to your right. Proceed, sir.”
Sameh drove his family into the Green Zone. It was such a simple thing to say, but normally impossible to do. Most Iraqis could not enter the Green Zone at all. Bisan leaned out through the open window and gaped at everything. The towering palms, the barricaded guard stations, the Jeeps on patrol, the hurrying officials, it all seemed fascinating to her. Miriam and Leyla murmured as one palace after another came into view, all fronted now by sandbags and sentries and checkpoints.
They drove past the embassy’s main entrance and followed the Jeep into a side circle. One of the marines left the Jeep, walked back, and opened Miriam’s door. “Straight along the sidewalk, please.”
“Thank you,” Sameh said. “Come, Bisan.”
A dark-suited woman already had the glass doors unlocked and open before they were halfway down the walk. “Mr. el-Jacobi? Hello. Anne Hickory. I’m the ambassador’s private secretary. We spoke this morning.”
“An honor, madame. Might I present my family. Miriam, Leyla, and Bisan.”
Miriam said, “We apologize for disturbing your morning.”
“No problem, ma’am.” She paused long enough to lock the door after them, then led them forward. “This way, please.”
They followed the woman through a series of hallways and into a large room filled with a battery of desks. Two men stood by the far windows, talking softly. When Sameh entered, the United States ambassador approached with his hand outstretched. “Mr. el-Jacobi, thank you for coming.”
“How could we refuse an invitation from the American ambassador?”
“Please allow this gentleman to have your passports.”
Sameh passed them over. He lowered his voice to ask the ambassador, “Any news about Marc and the others?”
“They made it past the Iranian border. Since then we’ve had no word.” The ambassador saw Bisan press against her mother’s side, and added, “This is to be expected.”
Leyla asked, “Can you tell us if you learn anything more?”
“Of course.” He motioned to Sameh. “Give me a number where I can reach you.”
Sameh passed over a business card. “English on one side, Arabic on the other. My cellphone is there in the corner.”
The ambassador checked it, nodded, and stowed it in his pocket. “You’ll know when I know.”
He motioned for Sameh to step away from the others. He drew several sheets of paper from his pocket. “You know of the imam’s plan to denounce Iran today?”
“I was present when he announced his decision.”
The ambassador slid the pages back and forth between thumb and forefinger. “You understand there are conflicting positions within the government.”
“Both yours and mine, I’m afraid.”
The ambassador had a politician’s face, features made for the spotlight. Even his smile of approval carried secret depths. “Your green cards are granted without obligation or limits. What I’m about to ask is a request only. It comes both from me and from the voices you heard on the comm link in our basement. If you feel you can’t perform this task, it in no way affects your freedom to emigrate whenever you wish.”
“We discussed this in the comm room. I said I would help.”
“If only it was possible to trust the word of every person I dealt with,” the ambassador said.
“Tell me what you need.”
“There are twenty-one names here. Seventeen men, four women. All senior members of the Alliance who have either recanted their position and thrown their weight behind the conservatives, or plan to do so today. All but three have lost someone close to them.” The ambassador handed over the pages. “I need to ask that you contact these people without mentioning my name. Washington cannot be seen to take an official stance on who forms the next Iraqi government.”
“I understand.”
“But if or when you connect, you may tell them the message comes from me personally. Stress that last word. This is not an official declaration. But let them know I am deeply involved.”
“If I have a problem, may I contact you?”
The ambassador pulled out one of his own cards and scribbled on the back. “Don’t go through the switchboard. This is my private number. Either I or Ms. Hickory will be available day or night.”
“I would not dream of calling unless it is a matter of critical importance.”
“That is the word to describe this situation. Critical.”
“If I manage to contact them, what shall I say?”
“Just this. Don’t give up.” The ambassador narrowed the space between them. “Hold fast to hope.”