Davis Bunn - Lion of Babylon

“Then the bureaucrats say nothing more,” Jaffar went on. “Shaming the el-Waziris with their silence.”

“What else are they to do?” the vizier demanded. “These young fools deserve their fate, as I have said all along.”

“To make matters worse,” Jaffar said, “el-Waziri is one of my father’s major backers. A devoted follower and financial supporter. To have his son and heir involved in a scandal with an American woman is disastrous.”

Sameh nodded slowly, his motions almost in time with Jaffar’s. The missing young man, Taufiq, had publicly scorned the vizier and the other ultraconservatives, many of whom maintained very close ties with the religious hierarchy in Iran. Taufiq was becoming a leader within the new generation of religious Iraqis. They insisted upon a clean break with the Iranian clerics. Young hotheads like Taufiq claimed Iran was dragging their own country back into the Stone Age and making it a pariah on the world stage. A sentiment Sameh shared.

Which was why Sameh asked, “How can I help you?”

His response only infuriated the vizier further. He hissed to Jaffar, “Involving this man, this friend of the kayen tufaily, will poison the waters.”

Sameh felt a flutter of fear. The vizier had a reputation for carrying grudges for years, then striking hard and deep. The man’s loathing for the Americans was also well known. Kayen tufaily literally meant “parasite creatures,” street slang that branded the user as adamantly anti-American.

The vizier was saying, “Taufiq and his hareem are in some Red Sea resort, pretending to be man and wife. He is a disgrace to his family and to Ramadan. There is no need to humiliate your father by involving an outsider. We should be in Nejev, where your father will tonight address the Shia nation. Not here. Not spreading the tale further.” He turned to Sameh, his gaze reptilian. “With this one.”

The vizier was known to have condoned those who persecuted Iraqi Christians. Jaffar’s father had refused to speak out against his chief aide. Jaffar, however, had no time for such trash. That was the word he used when speaking of extremist Muslims who persecuted the minorities within their own society. Garbage.

Jaffar said, “My father and I spoke this very day.”

The vizier showed genuine consternation. “He has agreed to this?”

“I serve as his mouthpiece.” Jaffar turned back to Sameh and showed very real pain with his smile. “Sameh el-Jacobi, will you act on the Grand Imam’s behalf?”

“Of course,” Sameh replied, wondering if his smile was as much a wince as Jaffar’s. For he knew that he would be paid for this case only with honor. And honor did not buy bread in the new Iraq. “Of course.”

From the air, Baghdad’s airport did not look like a gateway to the new Iraqi Republic.

What it looked like was a city. A fortress city. Designed to keep people out.

The pilot invited him to watch their approach from the cockpit’s jump seat. Which meant Marc had a fine view of the tanks and guard towers anchoring the perimeter fence. One gunner tracked their jet with his top-mounted machine gun, all the way from horizon to landing.

Carter Dawes said, “I guess that was just his way of making us feel welcome.”

They were met by a camouflaged Jeep with a sign: Follow me. When Carter Dawes saw where the flight tech was leading his plane, he laughed out loud. “Whose party did you crash?”

Two soldiers in battlefield dress and flack jackets waved the jet to a halt. Arrayed around the plane was a V-shaped reception committee. Armored Humvees were fanned out to either side of the plane’s nose. These were joined by a phalanx of troops in battle armor and desert fatigues. Dawes said, “At least their guns are pointed the other way.”

Dawes left the copilot to wind down the engines, and released the jet’s stairway. As Marc stepped out into the dusty sunlight, Dawes said in farewell, “Don’t lose that card.”

Soon as Marc stepped through the jet’s doorway, the heat slammed him. The sun was a dull red ball on the eastern horizon. Seven in the morning local time and already the temperature was well over one hundred degrees. Two F-15s roared down the runways, the light from their afterburners making them look like they were melting before Marc’s eyes. The stench of jet fuel coated his tongue.

A human bulldog with a shaved head stood grinning at the bottom of the stairs. “Sorry about the welcome wagons, Mr. Royce. The base came under mortar fire just before dawn. First time in a month. My name is Barry Duboe.” He pointed Marc to a dusty Tahoe with blackened windows rumbling beyond the armed perimeter. “Come on, let’s get you settled.”

When Marc was seated inside the Tahoe’s air-conditioned cocoon, he noticed the grit. A patina fine as milled flour already covered him from head to foot. “Are you military?”

“Lesson one inside the Sandbox, Mr. Royce. If you don’t know, you’re probably not authorized to ask.” Duboe put the Tahoe into gear and pulled onto the perimeter road. “The thing is, though, I owe Ambassador Walton some serious debts.”

“I’ve heard that a lot,” Marc replied.

“So to answer your question, I’m deputy head of station for the CIA.” He halted for a parade of three F-15s rumbling throatily toward the runway. “Alex Baird was a good buddy. Walton found out I was asking questions and hitting stone walls for my troubles. How he knew, I have no idea. But he called, and I answered, and here you are. Now you know everything.”

They drove for another ten minutes. Long enough to leave the runways and the trundling aircraft behind. They entered a military settlement that resembled every U.S. base around the world. Except, of course, for the sand. But military precision would not be defeated by some paltry desert. The buildings might be fronted by yards of grit instead of lawn, but their perimeters were still bordered by rocks, each of which had been laboriously painted white by enlisted personnel doing punishment duty.

Duboe halted the Tahoe in front of a prefab structure of corrugated metal and tight windows. Two industrial-strength air-conditioners gave off a fierce hum. “Five-star guest accommodations. Canteen to your right as you enter, stocked with ready meals, a coffee maker and a microwave. Showers to your left. You’re in room twelve. The key’s in the door.”

Marc remained where he was. Waiting. For what, he had no idea. But he sensed that Duboe was not done.

The man’s lips were a thin slash in a fighter’s face. He spoke with the deliberate purpose of a boxer throwing punches. “Here’s the thing. I know you want to hunker down, do some serious jet-lag coma. But the situation is not in our favor.”

Marc saw no reason to mention he had slept his way across the Atlantic and the Med both. Instead, his mind was caught by two words. “ Our favor.”

Duboe liked that. “Did Walton really fire you?”

“Three years ago.” The memory still seared. “Canned me and dumped me on a Baltimore street.”

“Then what happens but Alex Baird goes missing, and Walton comes to you.”

“Hat in hand,” Marc confirmed. “I admit it is a curious thing.”

“Guess it’s safe to assume Walton didn’t fire you for incompetence.”

Marc heard the unspoken question, and knew he had no choice but to respond. “My wife had a stroke. I took a leave of absence to care for her. She hung on for nine months. Walton got tired of waiting. She passed on ten days after my dismissal.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.”

Duboe inspected him, his look as intent as a sniper’s aim. “About an hour after Walton asked for my help, I got a call from the deputy to the U.S. ambassador here in the Sandbox. The deputy gave me two choices. One was, I could stop asking questions and keep my career. The other was, I keep looking for Alex and the deputy would fit me out for a steel box. The deputy’s name is Jordan Boswell. If you ever hear that man has you in his crosshairs, run.”