He looked at her for a long moment, his face grim.
"Why did he come here, to this prison?" he said finally.
"After trying for several years to find out what had happened to his son, Jalal was told that his son was being held here at the prison in Hawler… I mean Erbil. Hawler is the Kurdish name for the city. Anyway, he left Halabja with a prayer blanket and the clothing on his back and came here."
Fahimah hesitated, hoping that she hadn't done the wrong thing by mentioning Jalal's name. She reasoned that she was helping them, so there was no reason for the Americans to interfere with the old man.
"We know that you and your sister are from Halabja," Austyn said quietly.
"Of course," she said. "It is no secret."
Austyn paused for a moment. "And this Jalal is important?"
"In many ways. For all the years that the son has been missing, Jalal has kept his vigil on that street corner. Regardless of the season, he could be counted on to bring his prayer rug, where he sits and prays, asking any of the guards or prison workers going by if they know his son."
"How does he live?" Ken asked.
"People drop money on his rug. It is considered good luck to give," she told them.
It was difficult to explain to someone who'd been born and raised outside of this culture how curious and deep people's beliefs went.
"We have a saying, 'God finds a low branch for the bird that cannot fly.' What Jalal does is not begging," she clarified. "What he has done and continues to do is to take a stand for all the Kurdish people."
Fahimah looked from one man to the other before continuing. "That old man represents hundreds of thousands of people who never stop mourning their loved ones. He makes the younger ones remember, so that we won't allow the same thing to happen to us again."
Both men fell silent. The traffic was moving again, and Ken turned at the next intersection. In a few minutes, they were in a section that she knew well. Fahimah looked at all the new houses and shops that had gone up since the last time she'd been here.
Austyn broke the silence. "About the old man. The Kurds have been in control of this region for years. Why didn't anyone give Jalal information about what happened to his son?"
"I don't think there was ever any information to give him. In fact, I don't know if he was ever here. I don't know what has happened in the past five years, but before that, the Kurds were always finding the sites of more mass graves. The boy is probably in one of those graves, along with so many other Kurds who were shot in the back and bulldozed under in the killing fields."
Fahimah's eyes suddenly teared and she looked out the window again. Such thoughts were painful. She'd lost some of the men in her own family that way. Three brothers, two uncles and a cousin. Her youngest brother had been only twelve. He was tall for his age, and that was enough to collect him with the men, taking them where no one would ever hear from them again.
She blinked back the tears and focused on the low white-brick buildings and the people as they passed. She was glad they were moving again.
"Unless they give him his son's body to bury," she said finally, "Jalal will keep his vigil."
"And you think he might know where your sister is?" Austyn asked.
"No, he doesn't care to keep that kind of information. But many people talk to him. The Kurds respect him. It would be good for him to know that I have returned to Erbil. Through him, many will know."
She busied herself adjusting the scarf around her neck. She didn't want them to know she was upset.
"You haven't been back here for five years. Do you think Jalal still goes to the place by the prison?" Austyn asked.
His tone was gentle. She didn't want them to be nice to her. Not these people. She wanted it to be easy to walk away.
"I asked at the hotel where we're staying. People still see him there."
The van was now very close to their destination. She could see the high wall of the prison at the end of the street. Fahimah looked past the oncoming traffic at the sidewalk on the opposite side. Just ahead, she could see the stalls of an open-air bazaar that lined the far side of the street and spread up into several alleyways. There were crowds of people on foot in the area, but she spotted a group of men near one of the stalls, crouched and standing in the shade around someone sitting against the wall. It was the old dervish.
"Please pull to the curb and let me out."
"We're coming with you," Austyn reminded her.
"You can sit in the car and watch me walk across the street," she told him. "Jalal will not talk to me if he sees you. And even if he does speak to me, the news that will reach my sister is that I'm still under arrest. That is not the way to bring Rahaf forward to see me."
"You can pretend you don't know me," Austyn said more forcefully. "But I'm not going to let you go out there alone."
Ken pulled to the curb where he was directed. Fahimah considered arguing with Austyn, but glancing across the street, she saw Jalal starting to gather his things. A boy was helping him up.
"Keep your distance," she warned him. "After we cross the street, you go ahead and pass him. You can wait at that vendor's stall over there and watch me. Even if something happens, do not reveal that you know me."
She pushed her door open before he had time to disagree. For some reason, the traffic on the wide street had crawled to a halt. She began to weave through the cars across the concrete roadway. Behind her, the other door to the van opened and slammed shut.
Drivers were now beeping their horns and cheering out their windows, and she looked up the street in surprise at the sound of musicians playing. Beyond the line of cars and trucks, coming along the street at the base of the prison walls, she saw a procession of people. They turned onto their street.
"What's that?" he heard Austyn ask in her ear. He couldn't stay away from her.
"It's a wedding. People get married on Monday and Thursday nights. This is Thursday," she told him. "Now, get away from me."
The cheers were loud. The car leading the parade passed them. It was covered with flowers. The bride and groom were walking behind the car. The rest of the wedding guests followed behind, some on foot and others in vehicles. Musicians walked along the outside, singing and playing their drums, while women in traditional Kurdish costume followed behind and threw candy and rice on the heads of those standing by.
Everyone on the street, drivers and pedestrians alike, had come to a standstill, watching and cheering for the bride and groom. People shopping at the open-air market were now lining the street, as well, and Fahimah couldn't see the sidewalk. She was afraid that Jalal would leave. She made up her mind and made a dash across the street ahead of a truck carrying another mob of guests.
Arriving at the opposite side, she looked around and panicked, unable to see any sign of Jalal.
"Fahimah." She heard Agent Newman calling her name.
She turned around and saw him still in the middle of the street. He waved at her to wait for him. She searched the faces of the people on the sidewalk, looking for the older man.
Someone tugged on her sleeve. She looked down. It was a young boy.
"Hatin," he whispered.
Fahimah nodded, took his hand and followed him quickly into the throng of people.
Chapter Eighteen
Kathy Mittman, the office manager of the law firm Crandel and Smith, reached for the phone when her line buzzed at 8:59 a.m. It was the receptionist who answered external phone calls.
"Cathy, do you know where Leo might be? I have his girlfriend on the line, and she doesn't want to be put through to the voice mail."