Lion of Babylon (29 page)

Chapter Forty-Eight

M
arc emerged from the house with a boy clinging to his neck. At that moment, the building's corner evaporated in a cloud of gunfire. The shots came so rapidly it made for one whining drill.

Hamid's team was crouched along the alley, firing blindly through the dust. Hamid yelled, “They are flanking!”

“Josh! We're taking heavy fire down here!”

Josh shouted in his ear, “We found the mother lode! You guys take cover!”

Marc shoved the victims back inside the building, flattening those he could reach to the earth. “Down! Everybody down!”

Screaming ribbons of light laced overhead. The floor beneath him bucked. Again. A third time. A fourth. The sound was so fierce it felt to Marc as though the air crumpled.

Over the comm link came the sound of hooting. “Awesome,” Josh shouted. “Frank, break open another crate!”

“Ready!”

“Lock and load, gentlemen! Fire when ready!”

The child had his mouth pressed against Marc's left ear. The boy wailed one endless note, as though he had reached the level of fear where he did not need to draw breath. Marc held him close and let the kid scream for them both.

Overhead there was another series of roaring whooshes, and the floor bucked again.

Then came Duboe's voice, oddly calm. “Choppers inbound.”

Marc forced himself to his feet. “Duboe, get in here and help carry the kids! Hamid, stay on point. Josh!”

“We got your back, baby! Looks to me like the whole place is running for the hills!”

“Alex!”

Marc heard a cough in reply.

“Everybody needs to make for the field. Taufiq!”

“Here.”

“Translate that we have three helicopters coming in to pick us up. Everybody needs to help the young and injured.”

Marc stood and waited while Duboe and Hamid's men entered through the smoke and scooped up wailing little bodies. “Hannah Brimsley!”

A woman covered in a dusty loose gown of indeterminate color and a headscarf was helping another woman stand. “That's me.”

“Josh is here.”

Her smile brightened her whole face and shone through sudden tears. “I knew he'd come.”

“Josh!”

“Yo!”

“Hannah sends her love. She's looking good.”

The shout over the comm link nearly took Marc's head off. He heard some chuckles from the team.

“Claire Reeves?” he called.

A short woman, also in hijab, was tending an elderly lady on the floor. She waved and smiled, but her words were cut off as another trio of rockets screamed overhead. Marc endured the compressive blasts, then asked, “Josh, can we move?”

“It's looking good from this angle. I'm watching a whole mess of pantless, bootless, gunless recruits legging it for the exit.”

“Hamid!”

“We see the same thing. Is very much beautiful.”

Marc asked Taufiq, “Everybody knows to make for the helicopters landing in the field?”

“I have said. They understand.”

Alex appeared beside Marc. He was holding a young girl who shrieked in time to Marc's boy. Alex's week-old beard was scruffy, and his clothes were in tatters. His eyes were red-rimmed over hollow cheeks. But his smile was familiar and all the reward Marc would ever need. “Good to see you, brother.”

“Everybody here ready? Okay, let's move out!”

The incoming choppers added their own thunder to the chaos. Marc emerged from the house to find Hamid crouched in the alley's mouth. “We clear?”

“I am seeing nothing!”

“Everybody
run
! Go, go!”

They rushed out of the alley and sprinted for the trail opening on the lane's other side. The kidnap victims were unsteady on their feet, and the children were all screaming the same fearful tune. Hamid took point, his rifle up and ready.

And then Hamid was caught by a sniper, a lone gunman who cracked off a shot that took Hamid high on the shoulder and flung him around.

Marc was on the police major before he could fall. Hamid huffed painfully as he collided with Marc's chest.

“Josh! Sniper!”

The sky overhead immediately was streaked with tracer fire. Marc yelled, “Everybody keep moving!”

The boy was crushed in between Marc and Hamid, shrieking louder still. Hamid huffed again as the kid clawed at the wound. There was nothing Marc could do about that. He held both boy and Iraqi police major in the same fierce grip, and focused on the choppers, seventy yards out and closing. “Duboe!”

The CIA agent moved up on Hamid's other side. The Iraqi grunted as Duboe grasped him and took his weight.

The six of them, Duboe and Hamid, Alex and Marc and two screaming children, took the trail at a stumbling jog, causing Hamid to groan with each step. Tracer fire overhead lit the day. The wonderful sound of the choppers filled his senses.

Welcoming arms reached out and pulled Hamid into safety. Marc deposited the boy, then helped Alex and the child into the chopper.

“Josh!” he called as he turned to help others.

“On my way!”

“Royce! Marc Royce!” A new voice called over the comm link.

“Yo!”

“Carter Dawes here. How many are you?”

Marc tried to add the sums, but could not. “No idea!”

Duboe replied for them, “The three choppers should be enough.”

Claire Reeves came limping toward them, a small girl cradled in her arms. Marc asked, “Are you injured?” He could hardly see her features for all the grime.

Claire smiled and shook her head. “There's nothing wrong with me that a long bath and a hot meal won't cure.”

“We've got a wounded man in here.” He took the child and helped the nurse climb on board before handing the little one in after her. “Carter, we need battlefield dressings.”

The pilot hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “In the net bag behind my seat.”

“I found them,” Claire Reeves shouted over the sound of the rotors.

Marc called, “Fareed, count your men!”

“We are all here!”

“Josh, Duboe!”

“Good to go!” Josh leaped into the chopper, spotted Hannah Brimsley, and flew across the crowded space. Hannah kept one arm around the elderly woman and wrapped the other around Josh's neck.

The last man in was Duboe, streaked with dust and what appeared to be dried blood. Marc helped him aboard, gave the pilot an all clear, then asked, “You hit?”

“Scratches.” Duboe shifted his pack around front and drew out a radio-controlled detonator. “Josh, we ready?”

The Ranger slid back across the chopper floor to join them. “Should be. I planted every satchel bomb you gave me.”

Duboe handed Marc the black rectangle. “My orders were to observe and report. You hit the switch.”

Marc turned to where Alex leaned against the rear gunnel. He held out the detonator. “I believe this honor should be yours, friend.”

Alex stared at him a moment, then reached over and took the equipment. He flipped open the trigger guard.

Duboe yelled, “Fire in the hole!”

Alex hit the button.

For a long instant, nothing happened. Then the entire mountain appeared to shrug its shoulders.

Fire shot from caves just below the ridge, beasts of flames and fury. The air heaved and rocked the choppers. The three machines tilted away from the blast, clawing for height. Marc felt a sudden surge of heat through the open door. It felt wonderful.

When the choppers stabilized, they looked out over smoldering ruins. The valley was filled with new rubble, and the training field was no more.

Marc turned back to find Hamid watching him over the nurse's shoulder. His face was covered with grime, his wound now packed in bandages, but his eyes were alert. “Is good, yes?”

“It's excellent.” Marc leaned back in, satisfied. “Let's go home.”

Chapter Forty-Nine

O
ne glance at the ambassador's pages was enough for Sameh to know he could not connect swiftly with these people.

Leyla drove Sameh to the office, which granted him time to study the list and let his mind roam. The information was written in a feminine script, with large looped letters and bright blue ink. The names came straight out of the headlines and the nightly television newscasts. Each had two addresses, political and private, and a multitude of phone numbers. Sameh shook his head. Such high ranking officials never revealed their private residences, much less their personal phone numbers. The measure of trust in simply handing Sameh this list was extraordinary.

Sameh knew he had no choice. Midway to the office, he took out his phone and a card from his pockets. He drew a single shaky breath, then dialed the number.

Jaffar answered instantly. “I have been expecting your call.”

“I need your help, Imam.”

“No, no, my trusted friend. I am sorry, but you are mistaken. It is Iraq who needs yours. Now tell me what we must do.”

———

Sameh's secretary had both the television and the radio going when he entered his office. The senior imam's message was scheduled to go out in two hours, to be carried live on national television and two radio stations. Jaffar arrived while they were still in the front office, listening to the excited newscaster describe the mystery and rumors surrounding the imam's unexpected address. Sameh asked, “Should you not be with your father?”

“I was present yesterday afternoon when my father taped the message. I was with him last night for the meeting of his council. I stood beside my father when he instructed the vizier to step down and return to the mosque.” Jaffar smiled his thanks for Aisha's offer of tea. “I was there as my father signed the documents formally signaling his retirement, and the passing of his mantle to me.”

Sameh needed a moment to find his voice. “Who else knows?”

“My father's former vizier, his council and senior advisers, the team who taped his final official talk. And now you.”

“Please accept my heartfelt congratulations.”

“Let us ensure there is a country for us both to serve,” Jaffar replied. “How do we proceed?”

Sameh unfolded the ambassador's list and handed it over. “How many of these people do you know?”

Jaffar scanned swiftly. “All of them.”

“Then I suggest Leyla and Aisha begin placing the calls. You need speak a few words only. Hand the phone on to me. I will pass on the ambassador's message.”

Jaffar lifted the pages. “He has asked your help with this task?”

“This morning.”

“May I ask the content of his message?”

“Hold fast. Do not give up hope.”

Jaffar smiled. “It will be my pleasure.”

“I am in your debt.”

“In the service to our nation, my friend, there is no such thing.”

The calls were completed in less than one hour. The rumors of the imam's retirement were already spreading. Mentioning Jaffar's name drew every person on the ambassador's list instantly to the phone. When Sameh passed on the ambassador's curt communication, the response was almost universal. The men and women all took a long breath, then sighed with its release, as though the emotions they endured could be hidden no longer. All but two of them ended the conversation with the same request.

Will you come?

———

Sameh had never visited Parliament. To enter through the processional main doors, with the imam and their bodyguards, should have made for a moment of awe. But as they were mounting the grand front steps, his phone rang. When he saw the readout, his hands shook as badly as his voice. “Forgive me. I must take this.”

Jaffar correctly read his demeanor. “You have news?”

In reply, Sameh opened the phone. “Marc?”

“It's done.”

The news robbed his legs of strength. Sameh sank down on the top step, startling his entourage. He waved the guards back and said, “You are safe?”

“I'm good. Hamid caught one in the shoulder, but he's stable.”

The man's calm tone did much to ease his tremors. “The children?”

“We have them. And Taufiq. And Alex.” The helicopter's thunder chopped his words into tight fragments. “And the two women. Even the grandmother. Claire Reeves is giving her another dose of insulin as we speak.”

Sameh covered his eyes, but only long enough to offer a silent song of thanks. “I am entering Parliament now. May I tell the families?”

“Tell whoever you want. Can you make sure the imam knows?”

“Jaffar is here beside me.”

Jaffar leaned over. “The children?”

“Wait one moment, Marc.” Sameh said to the imam, “They are all safe. And Taufiq.”

“Ask him where they were recovered.”

“Marc, the imam wishes to know where—”

“Twenty-eight miles inside Iran. A secret valley complex run by the Revolutionary Guard, where they have been training and arming Iraqi extremists. We found a cache of over a thousand shoulder-fired missiles.” Marc sounded both exhausted and thoroughly satisfied. “I'm happy to report the valley is no more. Neither are the missiles.”

“Wait, please.” As Sameh passed on the news, he watched the imam's normally composed features go taut with excitement.

“I must tell all this to my father. They will want to follow his speech with a public announcement.”

“Go, go.” When the imam hurried away, Sameh asked Marc, “Where are you?”

“Baghdad's outskirts are just below us. We're inbound for the same hospital where we took the kids. Duboe and Hamid have called ahead. Hold on a sec, Duboe wants to have a word.”

There was a momentary pause, then the CIA operative barked, “It's been a solid day's work, thanks to you and our man Marc.”

“You found missiles?”

“I wouldn't know the first thing about that, being specifically ordered not to see anything that might impact international relations.” The man's humor remained barely below the surface, like water one half step from full boil. “All I want to say is this. Anytime, anywhere. As much as you need, for as long as you want. You read me?”

Sameh found it necessary to wipe his face a second time. “Loudly and clearly, did I say that right?”

“Close enough. You're about to learn what we mean when we say, We take care of our own. Duboe out.”

Sameh managed to return to his feet just as Jaffar clicked off his phone. The imam wore a look of grim triumph as he said, “Let us begin.”

———

All of Parliament was gathered in the public halls. Sameh heard the elder imam's reedy voice emanating from televisions spaced about the entrance chamber. The images continued to follow the two men as they entered the long gallery flanking the assembly hall. People murmured and pointed and moved to greet them. For a few brief moments, attention turned from the imam's speech.

The voice of Jaffar's father became a backdrop to Sameh's own procession. The Grand Imam spoke in the mode of a seasoned diplomat. His aged voice was well suited to the stone-lined chambers. He named no names. But his message resonated.

As did Sameh's. He did not need to check his list. He knew the families, the faces to match the voices with whom he had spoken, as well as the names of the beloved who were missing. Sameh's voice was distilled through his own years of tragic experience. He knew that such good news required the same gentle composure as the tragic.

Sameh reported to the first leader he spotted, then held the man as he wept. He recalled Marc standing in the blazing sun outside a hospital entrance, kicking a concrete wall to stop himself from weeping. Marc had witnessed what it meant to give a family good news, then be forced to accept that he could not save every missing child or heal every gaping wound.

Jaffar joined him then, drawn by the sight of Sameh breaking away and moving toward the next frantic member of the Alliance. Jaffar took hold of Sameh's arm, offering strength through his grip and his presence. The entire hall watched them now, as the Alliance leader they had just left shouted his joy to the lofty ceilings.

The growing tumult accompanied them across the main gallery and into the adjoining chambers. The louder the acclaim grew, the more inward Sameh's focus became. As though he was being drawn to a new level of understanding by the very act of playing messenger. Jaffar noticed the change as well, for as they passed yet another television, he said, “Perhaps we should stop and hear this segment together.”

Space was made for them in the encircling throng, just in time for them to hear the imam say, “How is it that a neighbor can call itself our friend with one breath, then plan acts of subversion and destruction with the next? How is it that an ally can claim the right to undermine the will of the Iraqi people, and destroy our democracy while still in its fragile infancy?”

A hand reached over to touch Sameh's shoulder. Sameh recognized another stricken Alliance leader. But this time, Jaffar interrupted the exchange before it could begin. “One moment, please. The ambassador needs to hear this.”

It took Sameh quite some time to realize that Jaffar was referring to him.

The imam went on, “Such uncertain times need new strength, a young mind, a fresh vision. As of today, I am retiring. I hereby hand over all official duties to my son and heir . . .”

The imam's words were drowned out by a rising tumult that spilled out of the gallery and through the building.

Sameh allowed himself to be separated from the imam. He continued his role as messenger, passing from one Alliance member to the next. Over and over he heard himself referred to by the title bestowed upon him by Jaffar.

Mr. Ambassador.