Second Chances

Pt. 08

by G. Lawrence

This novel is a sequel to Diminished Capacity. Like the first book, it contains romance, mystery, war, criminals, mild sex, and humor. There are ten chapters and an epilogue. This is an alternate timeline; history is similar in some respects to our own and very different in others. All characters are over 18 years old.

Recap: While serving with peacekeeping forces in Syria, Jack has been kidnapped by Tashad and put before a mock firing squad.

Authors note; readers will have noticed by now, each chapter has begun with Jack being held prisoner in a mountain village in Iraq with the rest of the story being told in flashback. The two timelines have now come together.

* * * * * *

Miss Jennifer Blair

Yale University

New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Jenny,

The presentation of Jack's Medal of Honor was quite moving. All of his friends were there. The President and First Lady asked after you, but everyone understands why you could not attend. I was honored to accept on Jack's behalf, though you would have been a more appropriate choice. The medal is now on display at the Thanksgiving Eve Cenotaph on the National Mall if you want to see it. Always Your Friend, Alex McGuire

Chapter Eight

NOT QUITE DEAD

It was my 34th birthday, one year and eleven months since my kidnapping at Al-Mayadin. In the United States, I had officially been declared dead and heard that Congress had given me a medal in an elaborate ceremony.

Though I did not reveal my thoughts, I feared this birthday would be my last. Tashad was struggling to keep hold of their outposts in the lowlands, so Abari had no time to worry about me. But one day he'd be coming up that road, which was never far from my mind.

The village was still several weeks away from spring planting, but I spent mornings in the fields preparing the irrigation ditches. Sometimes I would help the women who were germinating tomato and pepper seeds in their green houses. In the afternoons, I assisted Dr. Askari in the infirmary. He still said I was a butcher, but a hard-working one.

When the doctor was visiting nearby towns and villages, I provided basic medical services on my own. Most of the patients were men and boys with work injuries, but a few were women, always accompanied by a family member, for traditions needed to be respected.

For an hour each day, I would read the Qur'an or medical books, or any literature I could find, both in Arabic and in Persian. Several homes in the village had satellite dishes for their TVs, but I did not watch them except on rare occasions. I tried to ignore the radio, too, with less success.

"What have you learned from your reading?" Ishan asked me that Tuesday as we walked back up the hill from the lake. He had insisted we go fishing, but it was too late in the afternoon for a good catch.

"I enjoy my study, but have no intention of converting to Islam," I said. "I mean no disrespect. My reasons are personal."

"What are those reasons?" Ishan inquired, for he was disappointed.

"My young friend, it is not for me to discuss my faith in this place. I promised Ma'amet. But even if I hadn't, it would still not be appropriate."

"My father says a coward would convert to seek Abari's grace, but you are too honest."

"Abari doesn't care if I convert. His plans for me have nothing to do with religion," I explained.

"Aren't you afraid?"

"Of course. But I'm trying not to let it control me. Some days with more success than others. Please, say nothing of our talk. Lalia will only worry. She knows I don't sleep well."

"I am your friend," Ishan assured me.

When we reached the plaza, I found tables set up with colorful tablecloths. Dishes of wonderful food were ready to be served. Nearly all of Sar'ret was there, finely dressed as if for a holiday.

"What is this?" I asked, for there was nothing on my calendar.

"It is your birthday, my son," Ma'amet replied.

"How did you know?" I inquired in surprise.

"It's in your book. The one you wrote," Khillan explained.

I had written many things in that book, including reminisces that were much too personal. Things that should have remained secret. I wondered how it had been received in the United States but had never bothered to find out. After all, it was only supposed to be published after my death. My real death.

We sat down to eat, my best friends close, others nearby but enjoying the party. Ma'amet give me a pair of thick leather work gloves. Lalia presented me with a colorful wool scarf. Dr. Askari gave me a stethoscope. A few of the youngsters played music, a pastime I had given up rather than let my culture infect their society. Several made kind speeches, attesting to my value in their community.

"A few have been hesitant to honor you on this day," Ma'amet said, calling everyone to attention. "It is because of the award the Americans gave you at your funeral. But I noticed you were more disturbed by this than any of us. May you say why?"

"It is not important," I declined.

"I think it is important," Lalia urged, placing her hand on my arm. Something only family in this village would do. I guess there is something about mother figures, like Mrs. Blair and Lalia, which I can never resist.

"The award is not appropriate. I was only doing my duty," I explained. "President Wagner seeks to boost his popularity. He is a politician. So he has invoked my name for his own agenda. It does not please me."

"But you must have killed many enemies to earn so much honor?" Ishan said.

"It's not something I talk about," I replied, hoping he would drop it. But Ma'amet had other plans.

"My friends and neighbors, since we heard of Jack's medal on the radio, we have wondered how it was earned," Ma'amet said. "We have wondered how many Muslims he had to kill. And how many he set out to kill. We have feared a dark place in his heart. I now have the answer for you, from the Baghdad Journal. It is the official text of the award given him by the Americans,

Citation: For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty while serving with Company B, 144th Infantry, as a Medical Corps Sergeant during operations against enemy forces at Lavanna Valley, 15 January 2018. After warning that the enemy was lying in wait in great numbers, Sergeant John Lawrence joined the advance on his own initiative. When the advance was struck in force, and the officers leading the operation were killed or wounded, Sergeant Lawrence took command of a fighting retreat to the debarkation area, bringing back all killed and wounded soldiers. Once the last squad was loaded into the final helicopter, it was discovered that a wounded corporal was still a hundred yards down the hill. Taking an M16A2 from the helicopter, Sergeant Lawrence ordered the flight crew to evacuate to safety and returned down the hill for the wounded corporal under intense enemy fire, estimated in strength from 300 to 400 combatants. Upon finding the helicopter had delayed departure, Sergeant Lawrence then carried the wounded corporal back up to the debarkation area far enough for his squad to make a safe retrieval, suffering multiple wounds. By his undaunted courage, bold spirit, and unwavering devotion to duty in the face of almost certain death, Sergeant John Lawrence reflected great credit upon himself and upheld the highest traditions of the United States Army."

Ma'amet put the document down, looking for the reaction of his people. Lilia still held my hand.

"Did you kill anyone in that battle?" Khillan asked, looking at me in surprise.

"I don't know, my friend. I scattered shots to keep the enemy back, and then threw the rifle away when the ammunition was gone," I recalled. "I know you think I'm a great soldier. Ishan does, too. But the truth is, I'm not sure if I killed anybody in the entire war. That wasn't my job. I was a medic. I only fired a weapon when there was no other choice."

The village was quiet. Probably disillusioned, for the media had given me quite a reputation based on rumors and speculation. But even Bobby Blair's books about Sarge never cited a specific kill, only intense firefights.

"I think the Americans enjoy violent heroes, and have made you into something you are not," Ma'amet said. "But it explains why you enjoy the tranquility of village life. Is this not true?"

I scooted closer to Ma'amet and took his hands. They were old, but strong.

"My father, I wish it was true, but you have read my book," I said, seeking to apologize. "At times in my life, I have been very violent. And I enjoyed hurting people. I hope those days are behind me. I have never sought to kill, though there are times I've wanted to. And I have treasured being part of your family."

Ma'amet struggled with his composure, gripping me at the elbow. He had never had a son and was perhaps investing too much in me.

"You should sing a song for us," Lalia requested, sitting close.

She handed me an oud, a string instrument similar to a small guitar.

"I don't know. I've avoided bringing anything here from my past," I said, afraid to bring back that world.

"You have brought your skills, and your friendship," Ramood said. "Give us a little more."

"This can be the exception. We read of your songs in your book," Dr. Askari suggested. "And of the old black man who taught you so much."

"There is a song I'd been thinking about the last few weeks, but don't know if I have the courage to play it," I admitted.

"Then do not be afraid now, my friend," Khillan said.

The village agreed, offering encouragement. I decided to give it a try.

"This was written by Leonard Cohen, a Canadian songwriter," I explained, strumming slowly to get a feel for the oud. "It's called 'Hallelujah', which means praise the lord. It was one of the first songs Old Da taught me almost thirty years ago. We would put a hat in the street, and if people liked our performance, they would give us money."

I started the song as Old Da had, as a spiritual, gradually picking up the intensity of a long search, lost innocence, and the girl I would never hold in my arms again. By the final verse, that lamented failure while reaffirming faith, the village was silent. Caught up in the emotion, just as Old Da had trained me.

It wasn't much of a birthday song, but it did bring me back home. By the last 'hallelujah' tears were clouding my eyes. I needed to excuse myself.

Fifteen minutes later, as I was sitting alone down by the lake, Lalia came to join me. She brought warm tea and honey bread.

"Sometimes we forget you are far away from those you love," she whispered.

"I am with people I love, mother," I replied, taking her hand. "But sometimes it's not enough."

_________

Two months after my birthday, I was forced to make a difficult decision. No, not difficult. But complicated.

Khillan and Ishan, who had both turned eighteen since the beginning of the year, took me into the mountains to hunt wild goat. I took a couple of shots with their old rifle, making them laugh, and proving I had little ability to hit anything. Ishan had a nice kill. Khillan and I tied the carcass to a pole and carried it back to the village.

"Have you heard the news?" Khillan asked.

"Bits and pieces," I said, for Ma'amet liked to follow current events.

"Iran has broken with Tashad. Their agents are arrested," Khillan continued. "Tashad may no longer move back and forth between Iraq and Afghanistan. Rakmanistan has broken with Tashad, too. Many say Tashad is collapsing."

Khillan thought this good news, for the radical militias were now severely weakened. If the movement spread to Iraq, Sar'ret might be free one day of Tashad abuse. If Abari became too preoccupied to worry about me, or if he was killed, that would be good, too. Or with nothing left to lose, Abari might want to settle old scores.

We took the goat to the slaughterhouse where I emptied the entrails, cut the meat up for distribution, and saved trophies for Ishan. Not the surgical experience I had always wanted, but I'd grown quick and efficient. The youngsters went about the village bragging of their kill and making fun of my shooting skills.

I had nearly finished, my leather apron streaked with blood, when I heard strange sounds. Heavy trucks, but not those typical of the lake country. Had Abari returned?

Putting the cutting knives away, I went around to the front of the building. Bearded, with my hood up and wearing a long gray cloak, I was not conspicuous.

To my surprise, there were three armored Humvees with French Foreign Legion markings. A dozen French soldiers disembarked, spreading out and asking questions. Ma'amet and the village elders went to speak with them. I sat down on a bench in deep shade. One legionnaire came close to where I was sitting but soon moved on.

"There is tension throughout the region," the French captain said, his Arabic good. "Your government has given us permission to track Tashad. Have they been here?"

"Not since last spring" Ma'amet said. "Their visits are irregular, but always with threats of violence."

"The rogue militias are desperate. They burn villages who defy them. Only a hundred kilometers from here, they slaughtered fifty townspeople who refused cooperation. Even women and children," the French captain informed. "You must be careful."

"We only have a few guns. Can you give us more?" Ramood asked.

"It is forbidden. But we have a base in Kirkuk. Call if there is trouble," the captain advised.

"May we look around?" a sergeant asked, the accent Kurdish.

"You may look," Ma'amet agreed.

That was my cue to disappear. I slipped away to the lake with a fishing pole. Soldiers moved among the trees and store houses but did not come in my direction. After accepting donations of fresh food, including a haunch of Ishan's goat, the French drove south, back down toward the towns in the foothills.

"The French are gone," Ma'amet said, finding me still fishing half an hour later. "They will be back in the summer. They said to contact them if Tashad returns."

"Tashad will return. They need your food. They will need a place to regroup now that they are being driven from the lowlands," I said.

"Why are you here? You could have been rescued," Ma'amet said.

"The risk was too great. Abari may seek retaliation against your village," I replied, feeling a tug on the line. But there was no fish.

"It would not have been our fault if the French found you."

"Tashad is under pressure. They will use any excuse to make an example of someone. Did you hear what the French captain said? Fifty townspeople slaughtered. Even women and children. If John Lawrence is suddenly found alive, after escaping your captivity, destroying Sar'ret would suit Abari's needs. It would keep the other mountain villages in fear."

There was another tug on the line, but still no fish. Fishing was not something I'd learned to do growing up.

"Such ideals will not save your life if Abari returns," Ma'amet said, hinting disapproval. I set the fishing pole aside and turned to face him.

"Did the French do a thorough search, or was it cursory, as is their way?" I asked.

"They did not search well," Ma'amet conceded.

"If you kept me bound and gagged in the storage room, there would have been no decision for me to make. But you have given me the freedom of the village. Shared your home. I have fulfilled my dream of practicing medicine. Khillan and Ishan are brothers to me. Am I to reward these gifts by leaving you in danger? You cannot ask that of me."

"I have been true to my conscience," Ma'amet pleaded.

"And I must be true to mine. I will not pretend. I am frightened. I think of what might happen every night. It invades my dreams. But I am a soldier, and soldiers die for their families. They do not run away."

"I wish you were my son," Ma'amet whispered.

"I am your son," I answered.

We embraced, for I had not had a father-figure in my life since Old Da many years before.

_________

It was on July 6th, two years and three months after my kidnapping in Al-Mayadin, that Kassan Abari returned to Sar'ret in two trucks with seven heavily armed followers. They were low on supplies, looking anxious. Several shots fired in the air summoned the villagers.

"Where is my prisoner?" Abari demanded, waving his Makarov.380.

I was in the back of the crowd, but wearing a cloak and beard, I didn't stand out.

"Run," Ishan whispered to me, holding his old hunting rifle. I pushed the barrel down.

"And when Abari takes hostages and threatens to kill them, what do I do then? Let Ma'amet die? Let Lalia die? How can I do that?"

"They are going to kill you," Ishan warned.

"Maybe they won't," I replied with a sigh. And then I stepped forward, emerging from the throng.

"Why is the American not tied up?" Abari asked, shaking an angry fist.

"His health was failing. We did not want your wrath if he died," Ma'amet answered, most of it the truth.

Abari motioned for his men to tie my hands behind my back. The entire village was gathering around.

"The Iranians have betrayed Islam," Abari announced. "Rakmanistan denies knowledge of the martyr Frac Khanani. The Americans have made this criminal a hero, and built monuments to him. But Tashad will have revenge on our enemies, and the world will see our power."

"What are you going to do?" Ishan boldly asked.

"Galla comes with my cameras," Abari answered. "We will film the criminal, proving to the Americans that he is not dead, and then shoot him. The Americans will know we do not fear them, and this will bring many new allies."

"I thought you planned to sell him?" Ma'amet said.

"He is too famous to sell," a minion replied, a scurvy looking fellow with bad teeth.

"Take the prisoner to his cell," Abari ordered. "Galla will be here before nightfall. Then this will be finished."

Khillan showed two of the Tashad to my former holding area, one I'd not seen since my earliest months in Sar'ret. They pushed me on the dirt floor among sacks of grain, locking the door.

I did not feel so brave now. Only a narrow shaft of light shone through an upper window that was too small to climb out. I thought back on what brought me here, recalling my ill-conceived confidence in the marketplace after the bombing. There were no regrets for anything that had happened since. Little solace, but something. I said a few prayers, hoping they might help.

A handful of the village women were allowed to visit me, bringing bread and soup. I was disappointed not to see Lalia. Was she being held hostage for Ma'amet's good behavior? There had been some grumbling as they led me away.

"We will never forget you," Ramood's wife said.

"You will be in our prayers," her daughter Marwa promised.

"Many will cry," a cousin said.

"Maybe when they shoot at you, you can duck?" Marwa advised.

It was something to think about.

A few hours later, I was taken to the edge of the village, the town plaza before me, the lake down the slope behind me. Two more of Abari's men had arrived with a fancy camera, setting up for the grand performance.

"Tie him to that tree," Abari said, pointing to a slender oak that I'd spent many hours sitting under reading my books.

They wrapped a rope around my bound wrists, then looped it around the tree, letting me stand but not move. There were nine Tashad, six holding AK-47s, two managing the film equipment, and Abari holding his automatic pistol. No doubt looking forward to delivering the coup de grace. I tried not to appear afraid, but my breathing was growing heavy. I fidgeted against the ropes. My urge to resume praying was mixed with a desire not to embarrass myself.

"Gather to witness the strength of Tashad," Abari ordered, his camera filming the villagers as they formed on the north side of the plaza.

I was grateful to see Lalia was okay, huddled against Ma'amet. Khillan and Ishan were with them. Not only was all of Sar'ret there, but dozens more from nearby villages had arrived to watch Abari's revenge. I noticed Marjia's father and some of her cousins. Marjia's uncle was there, large and stout with his thick black beard. I wondered what he thought to see the infidel who had touched his niece finally brought to account.

The camera's focus returned to Abari as he geared up to make a speech.

"The Persian treason against Islam will not stand," he began. "Our movement is strong. The peoples of Iraq, Syria, and Palestine will gather into a single nation. It is not just Tashad. There are many followers, in every land, ready to rise. Our names will soon be known to all.

"First we will drive the Zionists into the sea. Then we will remind Persia of their true loyalty. The Americans will finally be forced from their strongholds in Afghanistan. Our empire will stretch from the Himalayas to the Mediterranean Sea."

Abari's men cheered for the camera, discharging their weapons in the air. They only needed a few bullets to kill me.

"And here we have the criminal, John Henry Lawrence. A known enemy of Islam," Abari continued. "The betrayer and murderer of Frac Khanani. We need no proof--we have his own words."

Abari held up a copy of Diminished Capacity, an English version that I hadn't seen, my only copy being in Arabic. His thumb held open the chapter on Thanksgiving Eve.

"Frac Khanani was a misguided patriot," I managed to say. "You are a gangster."

Abari slapped me across the face with the book, losing his grip. The book flew into the grass near my favorite bench.

"By this criminal's second death, we show our power," Abari continued. "No enemy is safe from our reach. No American is safe. Even their greatest hero, who has known the torture and humiliation of captivity. Even in death, our enemies are not safe. So, we say to our oppressors, leave our lands. Leave our homes. Leave our women. Return to your own country, there to await divine punishment."

Abari stepped aside so the camera could focus on me. All six of the Tashad with AK-47s lined up in a tight group.

"No electrical wire this time?" I innocently asked.

"Prepare to greet your God," Abari said.

"I will, if I do not see Allah first," I responded, much to his displeasure.

"Say your last words, criminal," Abari ordered, holding up his hand to give the signal.

I wanted to say something clever. Or defiant. I'd had hours to think something up, but in that last moment, it just seemed futile. I had my breathing under control, and though frightened, I wasn't cowering.

"The people of Sar'ret were true to their charge," I said at the final second.

As Abari's hand came down, I closed my eyes and whispered "Jenny."

There was an explosion of gunfire. It tore through the leaves of the trees and echoed off the lake. I felt dirt kicked up around my legs, and a shot hit the tree above my head, casting splinters. My knees went weak, causing me to slump against the ropes. But I wasn't dead. Another of Abari's tricks?

I opened my eyes to a ghastly scene. The Tashad lay in bloody heaps, some trying to move, and others not moving at all. Twenty or more villagers were coming forward carrying vintage pistols, rifles, and shotguns. Abari was off to the side, bleeding from a gut wound, and reaching for the pistol that had fallen from his grasp. I watched as Ma'amet picked the.380 up, whisper a prayer, and put two bullets in Abari's head.

The other Tashad were being dispatched in similar fashion, even the two cameramen who hadn't been holding weapons. It was grim work, conducted without joy or mercy. But perhaps a degree of satisfaction.

Someone cut me loose from the tree and I fell to my knees. It was as if the energy had drained from my body. Lalia used a small bone knife to cut the rope off my wrists, then checked me for wounds, for I had been very close to the line of fire.

"Prepare the bodies for proper burial," Marjia's father instructed.

Marjia's uncle came in my direction, straightening my legs that were twisted underneath me, and also checked for wounds. His dark eyes looked at me with a mixture of admiration and annoyance.

"Is this better payment for my niece's life than a pair of boots?" he grunted.

"Yes. Thank you, sir," I said, still shaking.

He patted me on the shoulder and smiled before going to help his brother. Ma'amet squatted next to me.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

"I don't think so," I answered.

"You protected us to the very last. It will not be forgotten," he said, leaving to direct the cleanup. Ishan saw me still on the ground.

"I am sorry. You were almost hit," he said.

"Apologize when you do hit me," I replied, struggling to get up. He grabbed my elbow, helping me to my feet.

"I am proud to be your friend," Ishan said, holding on until I found my balance.

"This was a good day to have friends," I replied in a whisper.

The villagers sorted through the Tashad equipment, finding guns, ammunition, cell phones and supplies. They decided to repaint the trucks, agreeing to share their use. It was a windfall.

The bodies were taken to the infirmary, washed once, and placed in shrouds. A conversation began on what to do with them as the leaders sat around a bonfire in the village center.

"Give them to the French," Khillan said. That was my favorite choice.

"We can bury them secretly," Marjia's father suggested.

"Other Tashad might know they came here," Ma'amet warned.

"Let's announce what we did, and recruit a militia of our own," Ishan urged. "We can drive the bandits from the mountains."

"Jack, what do you think?" Marjia's uncle asked.

"I wish I could provide wisdom, but I'm not a tactician," I replied. "If any of the Tashad had survived, I would have gone for Dr. Askari's medical kit to treat them."

The twelve men sitting in the circle looked at me like I was crazy.

"They were going to murder you," Marjia's uncle said.

"I'm a medic, sir. I can't change my nature," I explained.

"This is not a surprise," Ma'amet remarked. "From his earliest days here, Jack sought to help others. It is his strength."

"A strength learned from hard failures," I said, sipping green tea.

"There is going to be an investigation. Baghdad will want answers," Ma'amet warned.

"I must leave," I realized. "If I am discovered here, the government will take me into custody. Reporters will flock in from all over the world. I hate to think what will happen to your villages."

"I fear this is true," Ma'amet said, and now I realized he had been hinting at it all evening.

"Tomorrow morning," I said, feeling especially sad.

I got up, finally having found my legs.

"Thank you for the meal," I said, bowing.

"You ate half my lamb," Ramood exaggerated. Though I had been hungry.

"Someday I will buy you another," I promised. "Ma'amet. Father and Uncle of Marjia. May I speak with you for a moment?"

They followed me to the tree line overlooking the lake. It was a beautiful July evening with stars and a moon. I went to the bench often used for reading and found the copy of Diminished Capacity that Abari had slapped me with. It had spots of blood on the cover.

"I had a strange thought today," I confided.

"You nearly died. That will affect anyone," Marjia's Uncle said.

"No, I think Jack is talking about something else," Ma'amet insightfully realized.

"When Abari said there would be war in Syria, and Iraq, and Palestine, I thought that I could stop it. I have lived with your people. Traveled down the Euphrates. I lived and fought in Afghanistan. I think people are tired of war."

"Would you rejoin the American Army?" Marjia's Uncle asked.

"No, they have no part in this," I said.

"The United Nations?" Marjia's Father inquired.

"No, not the United Nations," I answered.

"Then you would raise an army of your own?" Ma'amet said.

"No, there can be no army," I replied.

"I do not understand. You would stop this war? Just you?" Marjia's Father said.

"Yes, that was my thought," I responded. "And at the same time, I thought I was about to die."

"It was a vision," Marjia's Uncle said in no uncertain terms.

"No, nothing so glorious. It was just a thought," I corrected.

"Or a delusion," Ma'amet said. "Have you taken your medication?"

"No, I wanted to die without drugs," I replied.

"That could be your answer," Ma'amet said.

"I think I should go to Damascus," I decided.

"You could die going to Damascus," Marjia's Father warned.

"Thank you for helping, my good friends," I replied, getting up.

"We said nothing," Marjia's Father insisted.

"You have said everything," I replied.

_________

The next morning, I dressed in a dishdasha, wore a kaffiyeh over my head, and had a bag slung across my shoulder filled with bread and honey.

"Saying goodbye is hard," I said, hugging Ma'amet and Lalia.

"We are going to miss you," Lalia said with tears in her eyes.

Dozens of others from the village crowded around. I had worked with all of them at one time or another. Dr. Askari was particularly generous in his remarks, claiming I might become a reasonably good doctor someday. With twenty more years of practice.

The site of the massacre was gone as if it had never happened. It still amazed me that not one of my rescuers had been injured. Apparently Abari was so intent on staging my execution that he had never given the villagers a second thought.

"I hope we will meet again someday," I said, prepared for the road.

Suddenly a pale-yellow van pulled up. It had belonged to Abari. Ishan jumped out and opened the back doors. It was filled with bodies wrapped in white cloth.

"We are taking them to the French base," Ishan said. "Would you like a ride?"

"It's better than walking," I replied. "But not much better."

Then I noticed the driver of the van. He leaned over to speak with me.

"It is time you stopped calling me Marjia's Uncle. My name is Farouk Massoudy," Farouk said.

I made one last round of goodbyes, for the mountains of Iraq are far away from where I was going.

"Relax. It is a long drive," Farouk advised.

As we drove down winding dirt roads through lightly scattered forests, it was my first chance to see the hills and lakes. I had seen little on my trip up twenty-seven months before. When the road flattened out, I saw irrigated farms, herds of cattle, and numerous small towns. We stopped often so Farouk could tell these neighbors that Kassan Abari was dead. No one appeared upset by the news.

We eventually reached Kirkuk, notable for its twelve-hundred-year-old ruined castle. I noticed the dress of the population became more diverse, representing a variety of ethnic groups. The French base, such as it was, lay near the Khasa River.

"What do you want?" the sentry asked when we stopped at the chain-link gate. He wore a dark blue uniform decorated with gold braid and a brown kepi cap.

The outpost contained several old stone buildings and a score of canvas tents, probably housing a hundred soldiers and support personnel.

"You left something in the mountains," Farouk said.

"What did we leave?" the sentry asked.

"The bodies of Kassan Abari and his bandits," Farouk replied.

Within minutes, a dozen soldiers and officers were crowded around the van, and a wagon was brought to unload the cargo. Ishan and I got out of the cab and walked off a distance, staying well away from the commotion. Dressed as an Arab, no one gave me a second glance.

"How did this happen?" the commandant asked.

"I believe a French patrol drew Abari into an ambush and killed him," Farouk said. "It happened south of Sar'ret, near the bend in the road."

"We did no such--" an adjutant began to object.

"Thank you for bringing them down. Our jeeps were too small," the colonel said. "The bodies will be processed with all due respect."

"I expect no less," Farouk responded.

"You make no claim to the reward?" a lieutenant asked.

"I have had my reward," Farouk said, waving Ishan and I back into the van. It felt much larger without nine dead men stacked in the back.

"They didn't even ask your name," Ishan said to Farouk.

"I would not have given it," Farouk answered. "This city is mostly Kurds and Turks. They fight over the oil. I hate the Kurds, and I hate the Turks more. We should keep going."

"There was a Kurdish base in Syria. They seemed friendly enough," I said.

"Perhaps, to Americans," Farouk answered.

We spent the night in Sāmarrā on the east bank of the Tigris River. We had some money found in Abari's truck. It allowed us to rent a nice room overlooking the waterfront, use soap in a real shower, and find a lively restaurant for dinner.

"I've not seen the Tigris up close before. I thought it would be larger," I remarked.

"It gets larger," Farouk assured me.

"From here, it won't be hard to reach Ramadi," I said. "I'll go north up the Euphrates until reaching Syria. Thank you so much for bringing me this far. I know you have a long drive home."

"I am going with you to Damascus," Farouk announced.

"You could die going to Damascus," I said.

"We will not die in Damascus," he said with confidence.

Though he didn't say we might not die someplace else.

"I am coming, too," Ishan said.

"My friends, I appreciate your company, but I don't want to take you away from your families."

"My Marsus died last year. My daughters live with their husbands," Farouk explained. "Ishan is young. Deserving of an adventure. We have not been on a vision quest before."

"It was not a vision. It was a thought. And I wasn't on my medication," I insisted.

"You may call it what you want," Farouk replied.

_________

Just after leaving Sāmarrā, on our way south to Ramadi, we were arrested. Sort of. I was naïve to believe an American, even one in Arab garb, could travel the country freely with two hillbillies.

"You will come with us," a thickset Iraqi policeman ordered at the checkpoint guarding the road to Lake Tharthar.

"Where?" I politely asked, using my best Arabic accent. Which was rural. He probably thought me a simpleton.

"Baghdad," he said.

"My companions have important business in Kirkuk. May they go?" I asked, fearing we might have long years in prison ahead of us. I'd done time before, but couldn't imagine Ishan or Farouk surviving such tribulations.

"We are his friends. Where Jack goes, we go," Ishan said, stepping up.

"This is true. We are on the American's vision quest," Farouk bravely added.

That did not help our situation. The van was left parked at a police station, and they packed us into a white SUV, driving south for the capital. Fortunately, we were not handcuffed or placed in hoods, and generally given respectful treatment. I enjoyed seeing the rich green countryside between the two Mesopotamian Rivers.

I found Baghdad to be a huge city, better than seven million people. A mixture of modern and ancient. We were taken through crowded streets to the Interior Ministry, a towering structure surrounded by heavy security, and led up the backstairs. I had expected a gulag, with prisoners in rags huddled in dirty cells, but it was just an office building like any other. A young secretary in a blue scarf smiled as we were seated in a waiting area.

"Don't get yourselves in trouble," I warned my friends.

"Your trouble is our trouble," Ishan insisted.

An overweight sergeant came to get me, leaving Ishan and Farouk behind. I followed him up a staircase to the third floor, entering the security chief's office. I noticed plaques and photos adorning the walls. A thin official in his early forties with only the wisp of a beard waited for me. He wore a brown business suit rather than a uniform.

"Tea?" he asked. "Or something stronger?"

"Tea would be fine, sir," I said, accepting a seat in an old wooden chair.

The fellow poured the pleasant-smelling brew from a glass pot into a delicate porcelain teacup, placing it before me. He did not pour a cup for himself.

"Acceptable?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. Thank you," I replied, taking a sip.

"You are obviously CIA. May I see your registration?" he requested.

"I am not CIA. I have no registration," I replied.

"You Americans always play this game. You deny, I call the embassy, they provide your registration, and then I let you go. Must it be so hard?"

Like everyone who worked in intelligence, I knew the United States had CIA agents in Iraq. I didn't know they were allowed to roam around with the government's permission.

"Sir, I am not CIA. And I would prefer that you do not call the embassy," I said. "My friends and I are peaceful travelers on our way to Syria."

"You must see why that is hard to believe. Now that we have cut ties with Tashad, and restored relations with Iran ..."

He stopped, staring at me with a new suspicion. He got out of the chair, looked at me closely, and then came around the desk, pushing the hair back from my forehead. He squinted, and then grunted.

"Excuse me," he said, abruptly leaving the office.

I sat there alone for at least forty-five minutes. There was a small bar behind the desk, stocked with bourbon, vodka and gin. I considered getting myself that drink after all. The security official returned with two military officers.

"Your companions called you Jack?" one of the officers asked.

"Yes, sir," I replied.

"You will come with us," he commanded.

I was led back down the stairs to the SUV. Farouk and Ishan were already inside waiting. I climbed in, watched the door close, and off we went. Military vehicles drove before and behind us.

"May I ask where we are going?" I requested.

"No," the officer said.

I didn't ask again.

After a few minutes, we passed through a heavily guarded gate into a large compound, part military and part civilian. Hundreds of men in fine business suits and brown army uniforms were going about their day. We were taken behind a massive old building, possibly a museum, and dropped off near a walled garden, escorted by four lightly armed soldiers. Summer had turned it into a wonderland of red, yellow and purple flowers. A marble water fountain spouted blue torrents in the middle of a colorfully tiled plaza.

"Buckingham Palace should look so good," I remarked.

"There are worse places to die," Farouk agreed.

"You will wait here," a captain said, pointing to a marble bench under a shady almond tree.

We did as instructed, sitting in a nervous group as our escort hastily retreated. A graceful young woman arrived to give us water from a jug, distributing wooden cups. She wore a casual white dress and flat canvas shoes. Her head was covered by a silk scarf rather than a hijab. Though curious, she said nothing.

"Attractive," Ishan whispered, noticing how the long dress draped the young woman's slim figure.

Two more officers approached. One was a colonel.

"Why did you come to Iraq?" the colonel asked me, his voice stern.

"Jack did not come to our country. He was brought here by Kassan Abari," Ishan said, saying too much.

"You are a terrorist?" the colonel asked.

"He was brought against his will," Ishan replied.

The colonel retreated, speaking with another officer and the security official I'd met before. The colonel indicated for me to follow him. A guard kept Farouk and Ishan on the bench.

In the plaza, feeling the cool spray from the fountain, I noticed an elegant two-story dwelling behind a low stone fence. A finely dressed middle-aged couple came out, standing in the shade of the doorway. I recognized the man, it was Prime Minister Ahmed Alwan. I assumed the woman was his wife, Layla. Suddenly two children appeared, stopping at the stone fence to look in my direction.

"John!" the boy shouted, jumping the fence. He avoided a guard, running until he reached me for a hug.

It was Hydar, now about twelve years old. The other child was Marjani, nearly fifteen. She used the gate, trotting toward me in her long flowing white dress as fast as dignity would allow. She also rushed into my arms, squeezing tightly.

"It's wonderful seeing you again, my young friends. How have you been?" I asked, kneeling down.

"I'm training to be a soldier," Hydar said. "And not just any soldier. I will be a medic."

"I'm going to school in New York next year," Marjani said in hesitant English. "My father has made all the arrangements."

"We heard you finally killed Abari," Hydar added. "You should have shot him in the cave."

"Why would you think I killed Abari?" I asked.

"We know who you are, John," Marjani explained.

"And who am I?"

"You are Captain John Lawrence," Marjani said. "You killed the Satan Blair, and the Heretic Frac Khanani. You were kidnapped by Abari, but I knew you were not killed. Didn't I say he was not killed?"

"Yes, Marjani said you would return someday, and now you have," Hydar said.

I should not have been surprised. Though the world had not been told of my involvement in the Blue Mountain rescue, as far as I knew, Iraqi intelligence would certainly figure it out. I was surprised that Alwan's children knew so much.

The Prime Minister and his wife approached, smiling graciously. I stood up, straightening my dust-ridden robe.

"I have wanted to shake your hand for a long time, John Lawrence," Alwan said. "Thank you for what you did. Thank you for giving us back our children."

"It was my honor, sir," I answered.

"How is it you are not dead?" Alwan asked.

"It's a complicated story. May my friends have food and tea? It's been a long day," I requested.

The Prime Minister motioned to his aides. Farouk and Ishan were brought forward, wondering what it was all about. They recognized Alwan. I hope they weren't expecting to be beheaded.

"Sir, these are the men who killed Kassan Abari," I introduced.

"Come into the residence. We will talk," Alwan invited.

_________

Three days later, after many excellent meals, sleeping in luxurious beds under cotton sheets, and receiving a generous reward for killing Abari, we were taken back to our van.

"You never mentioned saving the Prime Minister's son," Farouk said, miffed that it had been kept secret. And would remain a secret for the time being.

"He would deny you nothing," Ishan added, impressed with his new jacket. The Prime Minister's aides had provided us all with fresh clothes.

"That's why I didn't ask him for anything," I said. "I feel I've made a friend. If I make demands on him, I become a burden. I'm glad he will consider support for a peace initiative."

"He will wait to tell the world you are still alive?" Farouk asked.

"Yes, he knows the announcement will have more impact in Damascus."

We took our time going upriver, stopping along the road to talk and listen. News had spread of Abari's death, which was met with relief by many. With Iran turning against Tashad, the organization had lost much of its influence.

"Aren't you an American?" one farmer asked me.

"Yes, I'm from America," I admitted.

"Are you CIA? Why are you dressed this way?" he wanted to know.

"I've been living in the mountains. I'm on my way to Damascus to speak against a war," I explained.

"Are you a holy man?" he inquired.

"No, just someone who doesn't like war," I answered.

"We are all tired of war. It is good to speak against it," he said, shaking my hand.

The valley was lush and green. The river was used for transportation, irrigation and fishing. From time to time, we were questioned by local authorities. Farouk and Ishan had their identifications. I had an ID from one of Abari's men so bloodstained that it was hard to read, but no one questioned it.

As we reached the Syrian border, we loaded the van with fresh fruit and vegetables. After some brief inquiries, the guards waved us through, for we carried no guns and looked harmless. And such trade was generally welcomed.

I had no desire to cross the desert. We continued up the Euphrates, bypassing Abu Kamal, stopping briefly in Al-Asharah, and then on to Al-Mayadin, where I had been kidnapped two and half years before.

"What does it feel like?" Ishan asked.

"It feels different," I said. "I was an Army officer the last time I was here. On an assignment to survey the town. I wonder if the Army owes me back pay."

"I don't see any Americans," Ishan said.

We asked around, but Al-Mayadin had not been visited by U.N. Peacekeepers in over a year. Either their mission was concluded, or it had failed.

"Excuse me, do I know you?" a man asked on the street.

It was Dr. Qabbain from the local hospital.

"I visited with the peacekeepers once," I reminded him. "Did you get the supplies that were requested?"

"Only a few. An American was taken off the street by Tashad. It created distrust," Dr. Qabbain explained.

"Who was this American?" Ishan asked.

"John Henry Lawrence, the man who killed the Satan Blair," the doctor said. "I do not know why he was a target of Tashad. He was a friend."

"Abari claimed Lawrence betrayed Frac Khanani," I mentioned.

"Yes, I read the book. Khanani would have brought bombs down on a million Muslims, and gained nothing," Dr. Qabbain replied. "It is good he was shot. Have you gentlemen traveled far?"

"From the mountains near Jabal Kumar," Farouk said.

"You do not look like Kurds," Dr. Qabbain remarked.

"Not everyone who lives in the mountains are Kurds," Farouk replied, growing irritated.

"I need a drug. Do you have these?" I asked, showing him the bottle Dr. Askari had given me. I only had a few pills left.

"You will not find this prescription here, but they can be ordered from Canada. It takes about three weeks," Dr. Qabbain said. "Would you like me to inquire?"

"No, thank you. This has been pleasant, but we haven't found a hotel yet," I said.

"Aren't you an American?" Dr. Qabbain asked, not recognizing me.

"Yes, sir. But I've been away from home for a long time," I answered.

After a day in Al-Mayadin, we drove north again. The United Nations base at Al-Raqqah had been closed, but I wasn't going to check in, so it didn't matter. We skirted Lake Assad and headed for the coast. Neither Farouk nor Ishan had seen the Mediterranean Sea before. We spent several pleasant days in Latakia before going south, fishing in the surf and napping on the beach.

We arrived in Damascus in the middle of August, the city a curious mixture of ancient and modern, and could tell that tensions were running high. Since the civil war had ended twelve years before, contending factions had sought to control the government. Some were seeking a foreign war as a way of uniting the people. Others wanted to concentrate on rebuilding their country. I had seen a land rich in resources, ready to prosper, if only the politicians would get out of the way.

We drove slowly toward the Old City, stopping briefly to gather news.

"There is going to be a rally tomorrow in Marjeh Square," Farouk reported. "The government will make an announcement after. They want to see if there is popular support for war."

"Then I will need to be there," I said, wondering just how stupid my idea was.

"We will be there," Ishan insisted.

We found a stately hotel near the Barada River, which the Syrians were keeping full with the help of a new dam. Our rooms on the 5th floor offered a good view of the city, which had recovered well from the strife. It seemed to me that if Damascus could be so prosperous, the rest of the country could, too.

After a fine meal, we went into the streets, talking with shopkeepers, vendors, truck drivers, and anyone else who would share their thoughts. And many did. I sensed no enthusiasm for the government's scheme. Ishan and I went into a mosque for evening prayers and conversed with the imam. Several religious leaders were planning to speak at the rally in opposition to another conflict.

"You are an American," many said.

"Yes. I have been living in Iraq," I would answer.

"Are you CIA?" they'd say.

"No, just a visitor."

More than a few looked at me as if they should know me, despite the hood and bushy brown beard now tinged with gray, but couldn't quite place my face.

The next day dawned clear. Warm, but not hot. We ate breakfast at a café near the hotel, walked around the capital, and spoke with participants on their way to the rally. Everyone we met was enthusiastic about the day's events, but none were sure what might happen. Heavy press coverage was expected, and perhaps a live broadcast if the government was bold enough to permit it.

At noon, just before the midday prayers, we went to Marjeh Square in the central part of the city. Located outside of the ancient quarter, I noticed the square was a crossroads between the colonial district and the suburbs. The Syrian Ministry of Interior was nearby. It looked like thousands of people would be at the rally. Sound systems had been set up, and there were platforms for press and dignitaries.

"There is uncertainty," Farouk said. "They have security forces ready if there is trouble."

"How will you ever reach the stage? They will stop you," Ishan said.

That was a good question, one I hadn't considered.

"The United States has finally reopened their embassy," I remembered. "Maybe I can claim to be a representative."

"Dressed like an Arab?" Farouk asked.

"I think I can pass for an American," I replied. "I do speak English fairly well, you know."

"Actually, I don't think I've ever heard you speak English. Are you sure you remember how?" Farouk said.

"Maybe I should practice," I answered, looking for a victim.

Near us, a British press crew was setting up to cover the speeches. I walked over to start a conversation.

"Expecting a riot?" I asked in my native language.

"Only if we're lucky," a female reporter said, dressed in a white robe and scarf with a gold belt around the middle. She was an Englishwoman, about forty, with long brown hair. Her makeup was discreet.

"Are there going to be any Americans speaking here?" I inquired.

"There are a lot of Americans in the city. Not sure how many will be at the rally. Why? Are you an American?"

"Yes, but I've been in the backcountry. A little stale on current events."

"Well, this is going to be an interesting day. I'm Margaret Evans, BBC. The Peace Block will be speaking first. The government might try to rebut them. It's all very democratic, at least by Syrian standards."

"Do you think they'd let an American speak?" I asked.

"It would be a novelty. Do you have something to say?"

"I think so. I've come a long way to try."

"Peace or war?"

"Peace," I said.

"Let me introduce you to Fatima, their coordinator. She might be able to give you a few minutes."

"Thank you, ma'am. It's really appreciated."

"What's your name?" she asked.

"John Lawrence."

"Like the war hero?"

"Yes, the same name," I replied. She hadn't made the connection, which was fine by me.

The event was scheduled to start at 1 o'clock. Fatima said they were planning on two hours of presentations by authors, artists, engineers, religious leaders, and others opposed to more conflict. The speeches would have to respectful and not include direct criticism of the government.

"What is your qualification?" Fatima asked, a robust older woman bursting with confidence. She was traditionally dressed, but did not cover her face.

"I've been a soldier. I fought in Afghanistan," I replied.

"An American soldier would excite the crowd, but have you ever fought against Syrians?"

"No, ma'am. My friends over there, Ishan and Farouk, have traveled with me from Iraq. They can attest to my character."

"Five minutes. 2:05 to 2:10. Here is a pass that will get you to the stage," Fatima agreed, handing me a badge.

With some time to get ready, I went back to the hotel, took a shower, and trimmed my beard shorter than it had been since leaving Al-Mayadin. Ishan helped me cut my shaggy hair, but not too much. I found a khaki uniform similar to the one I'd worn in the Army, though this one was French, and put it on underneath my cloak. Then we had a leisurely lunch, and I took my medication.

We were back in Marjeh Square by 1:30. I lined up with the other speakers at the foot of a wooden staircase leading up to a makeshift platform, keeping my hood pulled tight, and made small talk. They were very idealistic, but feared that the day may be for nothing. When they realized I was an American, they asked if I knew Professor Lofoya, the Nobel Peace Prize winner. His institute in Utah had recently hosted a seminar advocating Middle East cooperation, and Lofoya had offered to sponsor an international conference. I mentioned meeting him once but did not describe the circumstances.

The square seemed very crowded. I had no way of estimating but would guess around twenty thousand. The dress was colorful, and I saw many flags, banners, and signs. The people were rowdy, but courteous. I don't know that any of the speakers were making an impact, not being the best judge.

The program ran late, but I finally made it to the podium at 2:35. Fatima introduced me as an American soldier tired of war. That attracted attention, causing the crowd to quiet down. I noticed the press on their platforms getting up, glad to have something different to report.

"Hello, thank you for inviting me," I said in my best Arabic. "I have come to speak for peace, but I do not wish to appear under false colors. I do not wish to trick anyone. Some of you may know my name. I am John Henry Lawrence."

I pulled back the hood, dropped the cloak off my shoulders, and appeared in my khaki shirt, looking something like the Army officer last seen in Al-Mayadin. There was an audible gasp. Some doubt, but not much. I waited for the speculation to die down.

"As many know, I was kidnapped by Kassan Abari. He made a video in which he faked my death, for he hoped to start a war. And if it didn't work, he hoped to kill me a second time. But it is Abari who is dead, and his dreams of war must die with him."

I paused to roll up my sleeves. It was a dramatic gesture I'd learned in prison, just before beating someone up. Or threatening to. It gave them a chance to consider the consequences.

"For two years and more, I have lived in Iraq. In the mountains. The people there wish to live in peace, though they often felt the whip of Tashad. It is an evil that affects too many. I have traveled to the Tigris, and the Euphrates. I have returned to Syria, from where I was stolen while administering First Aid. Every place I have been, the people want to rebuild the land. Raise their families. Make amends with their neighbors. I have seen this. I have felt it. And now I've come to speak with you."

I noticed a lot of activity at the back of the crowd. Some press, some military. If Syria's leaders didn't realize it before, they did now. A media storm was about to descend on Damascus, for it's not every day that an infamous personality rises from the dead.

"There are many good people here today, come to speak for peace," I concluded. "People with more right to address you than an American soldier. But I have also come to make a promise. I will not go home until all of the leaders, from Syria, and Iraq, Jordan, Palestine, Lebanon, and even Israel, agree to sit down and talk. Talk seriously of bringing peace to this land. The people are tired of war, and so am I."

I stepped back, my heart pounding like a drum, and heard a cheer go up. Fists were being raised, banners waved, and there was a definite energy. I made my way down the stairs from the platform, accepted handshakes, and wondered what to do next. I had no plan beyond my speech. Reporters rushed up with their cameras.

"Captain John Lawrence, is that really you?" one shouted.

"Yes, it's really me," I confirmed.

"Did you say you were killed? Have you now come back to life?" another asked.

"I was not killed. But I have come back to life," I replied.

"Did you shoot Kassan Abari?" they wanted to know.

"I did not shoot Kassan Abari, but I watched him die," I answered.

They had more questions. Hundreds more, but the crunch was becoming too much for me. I had never been good in crowds. A squad of Syrian soldiers pushed through.

"You will come with us," their captain demanded.

"Of course," I agreed, for it was not unexpected.

__________

The Interior Ministry was a grand old building at the edge of the square, chipped and battered by various wars, but retaining its dignity. I did not go inside, standing on the stone steps before the main entrance. We were still being watched by thousands of people, which the Syrian captain was well aware of. Several dignitaries came out to meet me.

"Captain Lawrence, we are pleased to see you alive," a high-ranking official said, reaching to shake my hand. "I am General Farad Hasmani. This is Colonel al-Hafiz, and you've met Captain Malki. This gentleman here is Interior Minister Abbas Kousa."

"We had nothing to do with your kidnapping, regardless of what the Americans claim," Kousa immediately said, daring me to say different. He was a thick middle-aged man, thin black hair, and every inch the politician.

"I know you didn't, sir. It was the work of a gangster. I have received nothing but kindness and courtesy from the Syrian people," I said, offering to shake his hand. Kousa gripped my hand firmly and smiled for the cameras.

"We will be friends," Kousa announced, waving to his aides. "Colonel al-Hafiz, you will find appropriate accommodations. Tonight, we will have a reception to welcome Captain Lawrence back from the dead."

"I am travelling with two Iraqis. They rescued me from Abari," I mentioned.

"We will honor them," Colonel al-Hafiz promised.

Captain Malki and Sergeant Tamer were assigned to my protection, for the government did not want me to get killed again. Malki was a typical Syrian officer, medium height, athletic, respectful, and sporting a trim black beard. Sergeant Tamer was a thicker sort, with big arms, a broad chest, and just the barest trace of hair on his chin. I thought he'd make a good wrestler.

Following the speech, I avoided additional contact with the press, for the moment, letting speculation fuel the story. The American embassy attempted to reach me, but my focus needed to be elsewhere.

"These are excellent rooms," Farouk said, admiring the luxury apartment we had been assigned.

Our suite had three bedrooms. The balcony overlooked the city, which spread out for miles in every direction. Ancient buildings and the minarets of the mosques formed a memorable view.

"I had no idea you were so important," Ishan said, enjoying the padded sofa.

"We have Abari to thank for this," I corrected. "I was just an army captain with an infamous past when Tashad kidnapped me. It's returning from the dead that attracts so much attention."

"There will be more attention after that speech," Farouk said. "I did not know you could be eloquent. Usually you just mumble."

"I'm glad you think it went well. I was too frightened to notice," I replied. "Were the people listening?"

"They were listening," Ishan said. "And the government did not put up any speakers to oppose you."

"A message was delivered today, just as foretold in your vision," Farouk added.

"It wasn't ... I'm glad a message was delivered," I said.

"What comes next?" Ishan asked.

"We will attend a reception tonight. We'll meet important politicians, military officers, and businessman," I guessed. "They will not let me tell them what to do, so I will congratulate them on doing the right thing, as if it was their idea."

"You are a student of Ma'amet," Farouk realized.

"I am not so wise as Ma'amet. I must let others lead, and use me as their symbol. If this helps the people, it will be worthwhile."

"How can we help?" Ishan asked.

"There must be a conference attended by all of the regional powers," I said. "After tonight, I believe the Syrian president will call for such a conference."

"Iraq will agree if Syria does," Farouk responded.

"I believe you are right. We've seen it in our travels," I replied.

"Just before Abari was going to shoot you, you whispered a girl's name. Will you call her?" Farouk asked.

"I don't know if I'll ever make it home. I don't want to give her false hopes."

"You do not know a woman's heart, my friend," Farouk said.

The reception was held in the presidential palace, bombed out at the end of the Syrian Civil War and now rebuilt in a classical style. President Mohammed Zuabi greeted me personally in the grand hallway decorated with portraits of historic leaders, thousand-year-old vases, and marble statues. It reminded me of the White House. His lovely wife was gracious, and he brought his two young teenage daughters, who seemed especially anxious to meet me. I gave them extra attention, asked about their schools, and complimented them on their good manners. Nothing ingratiates like praising a proud man's children.

I was extra careful in my dress. As a youngster, I had read of T.E. Lawrence, better known as Lawrence of Arabia, and did not want to draw any comparisons. At the end of World War I, one hundred and fifteen years before, Lawrence had helped overthrow the Turkish Empire only to open Syria to French colonial rule. To avoid confusion, I purchased a charcoal gray business suit and wore a blue tie. I did not look like a soldier, nor was I pretending to be an Arab.

"I do not seek to influence your government," I told President Zuabi, though we both knew that wasn't true. "I know you have sectarian divisions like the ones I saw in Afghanistan. I have no solutions for that. I only want a conference to discuss a regional settlement. You have kept the peace for twelve years. It should not be disrupted by ambitious war lords."

"We will agree to a conference, but only if our adversaries make the same commitment," Zuabi decided, for the favorable publicity would shore up his regime. And if the conference failed to materialize, it wouldn't be his fault.

Ishan and Farouk stayed close to me all night, dressed traditionally to emphasize their Iraqi heritage. Farouk seemed to particularly enjoy himself, having many opinions and not afraid to share them. Ishan was quieter, overwhelmed by so many prominent people. And several very attractive women. I was cautious, for Americans are not well trusted in this portion of the world.

"John, this is Oliver Toys, the U.S. Ambassador," Captain Malki said, still acting as my bodyguard.

The ambassador was a very tall black man, perhaps 6'10, with curly black hair and dark brown eyes. I remembered him. Toys had once been a professional basketball player and later a member of Congress.

"Captain Lawrence, my office has been trying to reach you all afternoon," Ambassador Toys said, shaking my hand with enthusiasm.

"I'm sorry, sir. I've been a bit pressed for time," I apologized, though it wasn't entirely true.

"The President is very pleased to hear of your escape from captivity," Toys said. "He wishes to speak with you at the earliest opportunity and is sending a military jet to take you home."

"Please send my compliments to the President and his lovely wife. I hope they are well," I said. "But I won't be going home right away."

"He will be disappointed to hear that. Your return is anticipated by the entire country," Toys pressed.

"Perhaps in a few weeks, that might be possible," I firmly replied.

"Is there anything the embassy can do for you?" Toys asked.

"I could use identification papers and a passport. And an advance of ten thousand dollars against my back Army pay would be helpful."

"Anything you want, Captain. I am instructed to give you my full cooperation," Toys answered.

As the event began to wind down, Farouk and Ishan cornered me. It had been a busy night, and I'd managed not to embarrass myself.

"What next?" Farouk asked, excited to be in the thick of things.

"We need to go south," I replied.

Though the reception had gone better than expected, I did not sleep well that night. With my medication nearly gone, I had been cutting the pills in half. Strange dreams were waking me, of a firing squad led by a grinning jackal with black teeth. I would fight against the ropes, unable to move. Knowing the bullets were about to rip into me. But I could never tell which firing squad it was, the first or the second? Was there a second? Was I dead, and now trapped in some bizarre afterlife? And why were so many in my dreams angry with me?

* * * * * *

Two chapters to go. If you are enjoying this story, please give it your support.