T he Christian cemetery was located beyond Baghdad’s western perimeter, quite literally at the end of the road. Just beyond the cemetery entrance, the lane simply stopped. Marc rose from the car and stared out over endless yellow miles of nothing. In the distance, dusty hills appeared to melt in the shimmering heat. Far to Marc’s left ran the main highway to Jordan, a straight black ribbon that bisected a world of gritty hues. A few bleating sheep only heightened the sense of desolation.
Yet even here, they were not alone. Half a dozen old women sat on stone benches to either side of the cemetery gates. At their feet were buckets of water holding limp bunches of flowers.
Today marked the anniversary of Leyla’s husband’s death. They had come straight from the hospital to the cemetery. Alex was resting comfortably alongside Taufiq. Hannah Brimsley and Claire Reeves were as weak and undernourished as Alex, but all four were expected to make a full recovery. None of them had eaten since the children had been shoved into the building with them. They had passed on their rations to the little ones.
Most of the children and adults had been reunited, and only two required further observation. Major Hamid Lahm had been awake, his shoulder heavily bandaged. He was being watched over by his wife, a lovely woman who bore the burdens of being a policeman’s wife with stoic calm. Farewells with Hamid had gone much easier than Marc had expected, a quiet exchange between friends with no intention of ever losing touch.
The bodyguards assigned to Leyla and Bisan now stood near the police Land Cruiser that had accompanied them. The guards and officers remained far enough away not to intrude upon the moment. Marc watched as Leyla gave Bisan some money. The child went to each old woman in turn, offering sweet words and wrinkled bills, accepting a bouquet from each. Marc glanced back to where Miriam sat in the front seat, the door open to admit a feeble breeze. They shared a smile. Bisan had the ability to draw joy from the deepest shadows.
“She has done this every year since she learned to talk,” Leyla said. “When I asked her why she did this, she said her father would want her to help every woman.”
“How she can know this?” Miriam said. “She was not yet two when her father was taken from us.”
Marc said, “She knows because he still lives in all of you.”
Leyla turned away from them and wiped her eyes.
Marc walked over and asked Bisan, “May I help you hold them?”
“Thank you.” Solemnly, Bisan passed over three of the bouquets. The front of her formal robe was stained with dripping water.
At the sound of his English, three of the women turned to stare at him. Their dark eyes were filled with desert mystery. All of them were veiled. Even so, Marc saw how one had tribal tattoos about her eyes and down the backs of both hands. Marc tried hard not to stare as he followed Bisan.
Together they carried the flowers into the cemetery. A truly ancient gnome, all leathery skin and gnarled limbs, tottered from the gatehouse. Leyla greeted him and offered a few coins. His voice creaked like a rusty gate as he thanked her.
They halted before a tomb whose top was domed like their Baghdad church. Marc stood back while Bisan and Miriam and Leyla arranged the flowers in the stone vases imbedded into the vault doors and at each corner. Bisan slipped an envelope from her purse, then looked hesitantly at her mother. Leyla murmured a sorrowful encouragement. Bisan set it beside the central vase.
“She received top marks in history,” Miriam said.
“It was my husband’s favorite subject,” Leyla explained.
Marc had no idea how to respond, so he remained silent.
Bisan moved back to where she could slip her hand into her mother’s. They stood like that for a time, burdened by more than the baking sun. Then the ladies crossed themselves and together they left the cemetery.
Leyla exchanged farewells with the gatekeeper, then said to Marc, “Ten generations of our family are here.”
“Ten of mine, perhaps more of Sameh’s,” Miriam corrected.
“But next to the life and future of my child, they are nothing. They are dust.”
Marc still said nothing. There was no way to express what he was thinking.
They returned to the car, but did not enter it. Bisan asked him, “You are certain you must leave today?”
“In three hours.”
“But I want you to stay.”
“I know,” Marc replied. “And your friendship is a gift.”
Bisan’s lips trembled. “But why do you have to leave now?”
“Bisan,” her mother gently chided.
Marc looked from mother to aunt to daughter. He sorted through a variety of responses. Ambassador Walton had ordered him back to attend an urgent White House briefing on the new Alliance regime. Senior Washington officials wanted his perspective on several related issues. Alex Baird was still too weak to travel home on his own.
And it looked like Marc was up for a new appointment in intelligence.
Marc touched the child’s cheek and said quietly, “It’s time.”
They stood like that, joined by all that had come before. Finally, Leyla announced, “Sameh has been asked to serve with the Alliance and the new government.”
Miriam said, “There are many factions within the new regime. Many voices. All want something. Everyone arguing for more power and higher positions.”
“Everyone but Uncle,” Bisan said, and wiped her cheeks.
“They are calling him a hero,” Leyla said, brushing at her own eyes. “A bringer of peace.”
Marc heard the hidden message beneath the news and felt his heart quake at the prospect. “Will you be coming to the United States?”
Leyla smiled at him, her eyes dark gemstones washed by a river of tears. “That is in God’s hands.”