Davis Bunn - Lion of Babylon

To Sameh’s vast relief, his news was postponed by a knock on the door. The young assistant entered and said, “Please excuse the interruption, sir. There is a phone call.”

Hassan said, “I specifically ordered us not to be disturbed.”

“Sir, forgive me. But the call is for Sameh el-Jacobi. Your honor, the woman Miss Aisha says that you have received an urgent call from the embassy.”

This was enough of a shock to silence even the grandmother’s tears. “The American embassy?”

“Yes, madame. She says it was from the senior official.” She glanced at the slip of paper in her hand, then mispronounced, “Dobob?”

“Duboe,” Sameh corrected, already on his feet and headed for Hassan’s desk. “May I use your phone?”

“There is an empty office next door.”

“That will not be necessary.”

The young woman said, “Miss Aisha has left the number.”

“Thank you, but that is not required.”

His response astonished the family yet again, as it suggested a level of personal contact few people outside the government ever had. But the assumption was incorrect. Sameh knew Barry Duboe’s number because he had phoned it repeatedly over the past four months. He had left several dozen messages and never heard back. Until now.

The assistant CIA chief of station answered midway through the first ring. “Duboe.”

“This is Sameh el-Jacobi returning your call.”

“Hey, Sameh, how’re tricks?” The agent turned his name into something that sounded like Sammy. Which irritated him. And Duboe knew it.

“I have been trying to reach you,” Sameh said. “For some time now.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. But here’s the thing, Sameh. You’d already used up your chits and weren’t offering anything new that I wanted.”

This was something Sameh couldn’t help but like about the man. Barry Duboe was aggressive, bullish, loud, and perpetually angry. But he was also bluntly honest. Given an Iraqi’s habit of politely promising the moon and delivering nothing, Sameh found the man’s brutal frankness to be positively refreshing. “So why are we talking now?”

“Because for once I’ve got a favor to ask. What do you say? Put your side of the balance sheet back in the green.”

“I’m listening.”

“Come to my office at the embassy.”

“With respect, that is not possible. Recently the extremists have placed watchers at all the Green Zone access points. If I come, they will know me, and I will be killed. And I won’t do you any good dead.”

The American laughed. This was something else Sameh enjoyed about Barry Duboe, how he used his bark to defuse a situation.

Duboe said, “So where do you want this meet to go down? And don’t tell me the middle of nowhere after midnight. I want a place I can get to inside half an hour. And it’s got to be secure, you hear what I’m saying? Safe enough I don’t need a guard detail to check out the bomber at the next table. You need to pretend I’m bringing the ambassador along.”

“Right now I’m in a meeting.”

“It’s now or never. Remember that tune? You were in the States when that was big, right?”

“Perhaps ten years later.”

“Whatever. The clock is ticking, Sameh. Either you help me now, or I go to the next name on my list.”

“It’s always urgent with you Americans.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“So is this a yes or a yes?” The man actually broke into song. “It’s now or never.”

Sameh turned to the window so he could hide his smile. “I know just the place.”

When he had given directions to the restaurant, Duboe came back with, “My man in Baghdad. See you in thirty.”

Sameh took his time hanging up the phone, ensuring his smirk was carefully hidden away. “With sincere regret, I must attend to this gentleman’s requirements.”

But the little group already was up and preparing to usher him out. Sameh shook hands with each, then replied to Hassan’s unspoken plea. “Of course I will ask the American official for help. How could I not? But I want you to do something for me in return.”

“Anything.”

“Contact your friends in the Iraqi government.”

The businessman made a face. “I have tried. You must believe me. But just now there is no government. The parties have been quarreling since the elections. And of course there are so many missing children.”

All this Sameh knew. “Do not approach them with any request. Simply let them know I am trying to help you. Make them ready to receive me, in case something arises.” He offered his farewells, then made as if to be struck by a sudden notion. “Can you give me a recent photograph of your gardener?”

In response, the family worked through a lightning series of emotions. Sameh cut off the inevitable questions about why he might need such a thing before they could be formed. “All I have is his passport, which is nine years old. I need something more recent. Perhaps you have a photograph where he was in the background.”

“But why-?”

“I will of course tell you if I know anything for certain. Right now, I am simply searching for clues.” Sameh started for the door, then turned back to add one final word. “Hurry.”

When Marc emerged from his quarters an hour later, a Jeep driven by an enlisted man sat idling by the curb. Marc pulled out his sunglasses and walked down the sidewalk, the seventy feet enough to patch his shirt with sweat. He opened the door. “Are you here for me?”

“Sir, all I know is, the motor pool got orders to pick up a Mr. Ride Along. If that’s you, hop in.” The driver pointed to the manila envelope on the passenger seat. “I was also ordered to deliver that.”

Marc tossed his backpack in the rear, picked up the manila envelope, and slid into the passenger seat. “Where are you taking me?”

“Sir, my orders were very explicit.” The driver jammed the Jeep into gear. “Deliver Mr. Ride Along to his destination and keep my lip zipped.”

They took the periphery road through the sun-blasted landscape. The concrete wall and prison-style wire fencing rose up to his right. Ten minutes into the journey, the manila envelope in Marc’s hands started ringing. The driver glanced over. “Spook central.”

Marc tore open the envelope and dumped out a cellphone, charger, and a sheet of notepaper bearing two phone numbers. No name. Marc opened the phone and said, “Yes?”

Barry Duboe was not the kind of man to waste time on social graces. He launched straight in with, “If you want to get a handle on what’s going down, you’re gonna have to move beyond the perimeter fence. The answers aren’t on the base, and they’re not in the Green Zone. I know. I checked.”

Marc grabbed for the dashboard as the driver swung their Jeep around a tight corner and took aim at three massive hangars, standing alone and intentionally isolated, at the far end of nowhere. Marc said, “We’ve been through that already.”

“And I’m saying it again, on account of how you need to think this through. This is your last chance. Just say the word while you still can. Stay inside the fence. Hang around your room, catch some z’s. Check out bingo night at the NCO club, scarf some free food. Then catch your air taxi home.”

The Jeep hit fifty miles an hour on the empty road running straight as an arrow toward the hangars. Marc said, “Walton did not send me out here to hang around the base.”

“You look like a smart guy. Smart guys don’t bounce from an accounting gig in civilian land to Indian country. Which is everywhere in Baghdad outside the Green Zone. Beyond that fence is just one big free-fire zone. You go in weapons hot, you stay low, you get out soon as you’re able. Any sortie you come back from alive is a success.”