But their poisonous influence was far more immediate, far more dangerous. Iran was home to the most strident and conservative strains of Shia Islam. Their oppressive regime stifled everything Sameh held dear. The Christian minority of Iran had been crushed, expelled, reviled, decimated. In his opinion, Iran’s current government was Iraq’s most dangerous enemy. This stroll past the new Persian market was Sameh’s chance to take the pulse of a plague carrier.
He rounded the corner leading to Sheikh Omar Street, where the market spilled over the curb and slowed traffic to a snarled mess. Suddenly he was surrounded by young bearded clerics, all wearing the starched garb of Iran-style conservatives. When Saddam Hussein had tried to eradicate Iraq’s Shia majority, most scholars and clerics had fled east to Iran where they had been welcomed. An entire generation of Iraq’s clerics had studied their theology in Farsi, rather than Arabic. The clerics who surrounded Sameh wore black trousers, scuffed black shoes, white shirts buttoned to scrawny necks, and scraggly beards.
One of the students revealed awful teeth as he hissed, “There is a dagger pointed at your heart.”
The cleric was in his early thirties, a bad age for fanatics. It meant he would never be recognized as a leading scholar yet was still young enough to volunteer for foolish acts. He also spoke Farsi. In which Sameh was fluent. Even so, Sameh responded in Arabic, “Sorry, brother, may I be of service?”
The man switched to heavily accented English. “We know you are facile with languages. We also know you are a betrayer of the worst kind. One who is disloyal to his own people.”
Sameh again replied in Arabic, raising his voice so it carried to others forcing their way around the tight cluster of clerics. “You want my watch?” Sameh lifted his hands in the manner of a supplicant begging for the attention of passersby. “Take it, please, it is yours.”
Two of the younger clerics dragged down Sameh’s hands as their spokesman switched back to Farsi. “If I wanted your watch, I would have cut off your hand. Which is the proper fate of all thieves.”
Sameh knew it was very unwise to bait a man with a knife. But he had not survived Saddam to be frightened by this bearded mob. “Brush your teeth.”
The man’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You would die for that, except I was ordered to stay my hand. And I obey orders, unlike traitors like you. But here is an order you will obey, thief. Stop your investigation into the missing young man.”
Sameh’s voice lost its edge. “Whom do you mean?”
“The eldest son of el-Waziri. He is an apostate and deserves his fate.” The cleric’s gaze shone with pleasure from shaking Sameh’s composure. “Leave this alone. For the sake of your family. Go back to begging the Americans for crumbs. For myself, I consign you to the dark and the void.”
Chapter Twenty
A police officer and Sameh’s niece accompanied Marc down to the street. The officer personally flagged him a taxi, then shrugged off Marc’s attempt at thanks, as though this was a service he did for all visiting foreigners. Leyla instructed the taxi driver to let Marc off across the square from the hotel. She explained to Marc this was safer, and clearly the police officer agreed. Leyla let him go with a quiet warning to take great care. Her farewell carried a distinct Baghdad flavor.
Duboe’s phone call had instructed him to go to the Palestine Hotel. The high-rise building dominated one side of Ferdous Square and was surrounded by concrete antitank barriers. The access points were patrolled by guards with Kevlar vests and submachine guns. Outside the barrier, a crowd of mostly Iraqis waited to be processed and searched. Inside the barrier, two more guards manned a sandbagged fifty-caliber machine gun.
The square was packed, the traffic awful. In the distance, Marc saw the massive head of Saddam, lying now on its side and covered in refuse. A pair of Iraqis stood grinning in front of the fallen statue while a third took their photograph. Beyond them, a burned-out tank stood as sullen testimony to the city’s troubles. The vast square was lined with buildings and shops and a police station and cafes.
Marc started toward the hotel when someone called his name. The sound was so bizarre, he assumed he was mistaken. Then it happened again. “Hold up there, Royce!”
A figure swiftly weaved through the crowd wearing a baseball cap pulled down low, sunglasses, a shapeless blazer, and dusty trousers. But something about the man triggered a recent memory. Marc said, “You’re the leopard.”
“Say again?”
“The guy in the Rhino with me. Slipping into Baghdad.”
The guy responded with a mere twitch at the edges of his mouth. But Marc knew he liked the tag. “I’m headed down the street and around the corner and into a place I know. If you want to stay alive, you follow.”
He was gone almost before the words were formed, gliding through the massed foot traffic like smoke. Marc did his best to keep up, moving at a pace one notch below a full run. They left the square and went down a major thoroughfare, turned onto a smaller street, then entered an alley so narrow it remained in perpetual shadows.
The leopard found his way into a locals-only cafe filled with smoke from a dozen hookahs. He walked to the back wall, mirrored so he could sit with his back to the street and still survey everything that was going on. He pointed Marc to a stool and said, “This place caters to the crowd that doesn’t like the Ramadan fast any more than I do. You gotten sick of mint tea yet? It’s either that or coffee thick as oatmeal.”
“I’m supposed to be meeting-”
“I know all about that, sport. Why do you think I’m here?”
The leopard moved to the counter and ordered in what to Marc sounded like passable Arabic. He returned with the teas and a plate of cold flatbread. He settled on the stool next to Marc and offered him a hand that felt like stone. “Josh Reames.”
“Are you special ops?”
He had a grin that mocked. “Where I go, baby, that ain’t nothin’ but words for the body bag. You dig?”
“You’re a ghost operating outside the official remit.”
“Roger that. I’m not here, and we’re not talking. Only, I got to tell you, I like what you did, saving those kids. And I like even more how you gave the ’Racks credit. Me and my crew, we dig knowing there’s an American civvie working the local scene, who’s not hunting the spotlight back home.”
Marc gave that a moment, then asked, “Why are we sitting here?”
Reames lifted his tulip glass by the rim between thumb and forefinger. He blew softly, sipped, then said, “The guy you’re supposed to meet inside that hotel, he’s not on your side.”
“You mean Barry Duboe?”
“Not him. The man who ordered Duboe to set up this meeting.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“You’re lucky. Jordan Boswell is not your basic embassy stiff. Boswell’s clawing his way up the Washington ladder and doesn’t care how many good joes he leaves in the dust.”
“Does this mean you’re an ally?”
“Long as you’re looking for the missing three, you bet.”
“Now why is that, I wonder.”
“One of the women who took off with Alex, we had a thing going.”
“The missionary, Hannah Brimsley?” Marc watched the specialist jerk a brief nod. “Can you tell me why they’ve disappeared?”
“All I know is, they were working with this other guy on something big.”
“The missing Iraqi, Taufiq el-Waziri. He was Christian?”
“No, man. His family is big-time Muslims.”
“So maybe he converted?”
“You don’t use that word around here. It’s like lighting a fuse with these people. But the way Hannah talked about this secret gig of hers, I’d say something more was going on than one local coming to faith.” He took off his sunglasses, revealing two strips of lighter skin across forehead and cheeks, and eyes hollowed by the strain of his life and his loss. “There aren’t supposed to be missionaries operating inside this country. Hannah was here as aide to the Green Zone pastor. He’s an okay joe, but he’s in way over his head, just marking days off his calendar and praying he makes it home in one piece.”