Free Lion of Babylon by Davis Bunn Page A

you?”
    â€”——
    During the drive from the hotel back to his office, Sameh repeatedly recalled the young man’s expression. It captured a fighter’s strength, an implacable force. Focused upon saving the life of a child he had never met. An Arab child.
    Sameh wondered if perhaps the young man’s arrival was something more than it seemed. There was an expression many Iraqis used at the beginning of each day, actually a Christian prayer that predated Islam. But it was spoken by many Muslims as well. Ya sabbah, ya aleem . Salutations to the Giver of this new day, to the Giver of this life. It was intended to draw divine protection into a chaotic world. Sameh silently repeated the blessing, then asked the dusty day through the windshield, was Marc Royce’s arrival a sign? And if so, a sign of what?

Chapter Ten
    M arc checked into a room at the Al-Hamra. The hotel was a decent enough place, with fresh sheets, clean facilities, and even a small balcony. Marc paid extra for a room on the seventh floor, one just below the penthouse. He had no idea why it was good to be up high, other than how the generator’s noise was muted. But the desk clerk said the upper-floor rooms cost fifty dollars more a night. Marc assumed if anybody was willing to pay that much for a couple dozen feet of extra elevation, there had to be a good reason.
    Marc pulled the room’s lone chair over to the balcony window. Beyond the sliding glass doors, the city weaved and danced in the heat. He opened the new cellphone and dialed the number Barry Duboe had given him.
    Duboe answered on the first ring. “This better be good.”
    â€œI need something.”
    â€œYou already got all the somethings I’m ready to deliver.”
    â€œThis is important.”
    â€œAlways is.”
    Marc spelled the gardener’s name. Sketched out the details on Sameh’s single sheet of paper. Passport number. Date of last arrest. Charges of abduction, extortion, murder. Released in the dying days of Saddam’s regime.
    Duboe said, “I’m hanging up now.”
    â€œAnd I’m calling Walton. Then I’ll make the request a second time, and wait for you to call me back. How does that work for you?” When the CIA agent responded by breathing hard into his ear, Marc went on, “I’ve got a photograph and fingerprints. Give me your fax number.”
    Anger grated Duboe’s voice as he recited the numbers. Then he cut the connection.
    Marc went downstairs and waited while the fax was sent. He asked the receptionist for directions and left the hotel. To him, the entire world was a superheated yellow. Everything was coated in the same drenching layers of heat and dust. Cars, buildings, people, air. Even the light.
    He walked along a raised sidewalk past a third-world array of tiny shops. Cellphones, computers, children’s games, kitchen utensils—on and on the shops went. Conversations stopped as Marc passed. Dark eyes studied him for any hint of threat or weakness, then dismissed him.
    The traffic was slow and sullen. Marc’s every breath felt clogged with grime and diesel and roasting lamb and coriander and mint. He found it an earthy, thrilling mix. Marc felt his blood surge in a way he had thought lost and gone forever. His senses were on danger alert. The high was so strong and unexpected he felt guilty.
    He entered the establishment which the receptionist had suggested. A pair of men, clearly father and son, welcomed him in a loud mixture of English and Arabic. The receptionist no doubt had called ahead, working hard for his kickback. Marc purchased three sets of clothes to match those he had seen other nonmilitary Westerners wear—pale cotton slacks, loose shirts, everything made from substances that could be washed in the sink, hung out to dry, and worn again without ironing. He also purchased a pair of lightweight canvas lace-ups, a cross between sneakers and boots.
    He took