Davis Bunn - Lion of Babylon

“Alex Baird is a friend. I am here to help find him.”

Duboe’s sigh rattled the cellphone earpiece. “Okay then. To make that happen, you need to enter the wilds of Baghdad. There are two problems. One, everybody coming or going through the checkpoints is marked. So we’re going to engage in a little theater. You’re going to be deposited in Indian country the same way we do our undercover ops.”

The words should not have caused his adrenaline gauge to max into the red zone. Or leave him wanting to grin. “And the second problem?”

“You need a guide. I’m meeting with an Iraqi, a Christian. His name is Sameh el-Jacobi.” Duboe spelled it. “I’ve worked with Sameh before. Some people claim he’s the most honest man in Baghdad. Other people will tell you that’s not saying a lot.”

“How do we make this happen?”

“I’m having lunch with the man, see if he’ll agree to meet you. Selling him is your first challenge. Sameh has every reason to turn you down, and no real reason I can think of to agree.” Duboe hesitated, then added, “Then again, the safest thing that could happen is for him to say no, so we can tell Ambassador Walton we tried, then send you off while you’re still breathing.”

– – Sameh had always considered Baghdad to be a city of astonishments, some good, some not so much. One shocker was how many new restaurants were opening. And nightclubs. Good ones. World-class, in fact. With prices to match.

Needless to say, such places caused the vizier and his conservative followers to foam at the mouth.

The Lebanese Club was the latest and the most incredible of all. Located a mile outside the Green Zone, the club was part Beirut, part Miami Beach. Sameh had never been there. He would probably not even have heard of the place except for the fact that his wife had been pleading with him to take her. Until today, Sameh had always protested he would not be caught dead in such a place, or in his wildest dreams spend so much on a meal.

But now Miriam would hear about him being at the club. Of this Sameh had no doubt. His wife had an intelligence network that put the Mukhabarat to shame.

He pulled through the requisite blast barriers and entered the open parking area. Even the guards were dressed for a different world, in Ralph Lauren knit shirts and wraparound shades and stone-washed jeans and Nikes. Still, Sameh had no trouble identifying them as guards, for their hands carried the standard badges of office-walkie-talkies and machine pistols. The parking area’s rear wall had a metal overhang. Sameh did not even bother to ask how much it would cost to park in the shade. The shadows contained a polished assortment of modern wealth-Jeep Commanders, Humvees, Range Rovers, Land Cruisers. When the guards finished inspecting his trunk and sweeping under his car with the mirrors, Sameh pulled his Peugeot into an exposed slot, knowing the steering wheel would blister his hands when he returned.

He waited inside the super-cooled reception area until Barry Duboe entered, looked around, and declared, “Excuse me. I thought we were supposed to be in a war zone.”

“Wait until you get the bill,” Sameh replied. “Then you’ll see.”

Barry Duboe unholstered his pistol and handed it to the guard without being asked. “Hey, if the food is anything like the decor, I’ll let them slip their hand in my wallet any day of the week.”

The manager, a Lebanese with the brilliant smile of a snake oil salesman, lifted two menus and said, “Do not worry, good sir. I will not cheat you.” He led them to a table inside the VIP section, held Barry’s seat, handed them the menus, then added, “Well, I am going to cheat you. But not a lot.”

Barry watched the man saunter away. “What do you know. An honest crook.”

Sameh ran his eye down the prices and decided to make absolutely certain. “You are paying for this.”

“Not me, pal. Uncle Sugar.”

“In that case, I am going to enjoy myself very much. I will have to. My wife is going to hold my feet over a fire when she hears where I had lunch.”

Barry Duboe had the most even teeth Sameh had ever seen, like they had been ground down to a uniform plane. “Ain’t love grand.”

When they had ordered, Sameh repeated what he had said on the telephone, “I have been trying to contact you.”

“Is that a fact.” Duboe frowned as a trio of young Arabs were seated across from them.

Sameh glanced at the group and said, “Terrorists do not wear gold Cartier watches.”

“How do we know this place isn’t wired for sound?”

In response, Sameh flagged down a passing waiter and asked, “Who had our table last night?”

The waiter squinted into the distance, then replied, “The French ambassador and a general from NATO.”

Sameh thanked the waiter, then said to Duboe, “If we are being bugged, at least we are in good company. Now tell me why you failed to respond when I asked for help.”

“We’ve been through this already. Your account was in the red. You did a good thing for Uncle Sugar, we paid you back. And another time. And another. Then you became just some guy I didn’t need on my back.”

“I would be insulted if I did not find your frankness so refreshing.”

“Frank’s my middle name.”

“Really?”

“No, Sameh, not really. Come on, man. What’s with you today?”

“I only phoned you when a life was at stake.”

“Hey. Welcome to Baghdad. Just breathing the air is risky.” Duboe nodded as the waiter put down his plate, took a bite, and declared, “Okay. I’m moving in.”

They ate in silence for a time. The food was excellent. The restaurant was separated from the nightclub by a lounge. Glass walls between the chambers made for imperfect soundproofing. When music started pounding in the nightclub, it was loud enough to make Duboe wince. “What is that racket?”

“The country’s first toy-boy band. They are called Unknown to No One. The young people know them by their cellphone call sign, which is UTN1.”

Duboe shook his head. “You’re full of surprises.”

Sameh watched waiters deliver a smoldering hookah and plates of food to the young Arabs. A disco, hookah, and food. At one o’clock in the afternoon. On the twenty-fourth day of Ramadan. These young men might call it freedom. But given half a chance, the vizier and his fundamentalist allies would hand these young men their heads. “My niece and her daughter live with us. The young girl has the band’s poster on her wall. Their music, if you can call it that, greets me most evenings.”

“I would rather have a root canal.” Duboe pushed his plate to one side. “Okay, time for work. Are you still in the people-finding business?”

“Unfortunately. I specialize in finding children. The kidnappers rarely take anyone older than four or five. The parents pay faster, and the children cause less trouble. Most are too terrified to remember anything.”

“How do you stand it?”

“Every child I have been sent after, I have found. But there are others who wake me at night. I hear the cries of ones whose parents do not come to me. Or cannot pay.” Sameh set down his own fork. “I pray. A great deal, actually. More even than during the wars.”

For some reason, that caused Duboe to smile. “I knew I had come to the right man.”

“You have a missing child?”

“Not exactly. We have a problem. We need to hire you.”

“We?”

“Far as you’re concerned, I’m the client and the payee. Do not, under any circumstances, mention this to anyone else on the embassy staff. Or anybody in your own government. For that matter, take it as a blanket policy for anybody even connected to the Green Zone. Including people inside my office.”