ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

BY DAVID LAWRENCE CADE

CHAPTER FOUR

Goransson stood up to shake Omar’s hand and asked, "Why, whatever do you mean?"

Omar, who stood at just over six feet one inch tall, his powerful chest expanding almost to its fullest as he inhaled, shook his hand, looked Goransson in the eye, and said, "All this subterfuge has made me careless, upset, and I had a blow-out on the road to Kennedy, because in my haste leaving the hotel I backed up over a tire and ruined the tread."

"I’m sorry, Mr. Aboudi," Goransson said.

"And I ended up driving on a defective tire at sixty-five miles an hour on the Long Island Expressway, almost missed my flight, and had to endure a verbal tongue-lashing from the rental manager that I would just as soon forget."

"This would have been yesterday after you left your hotel?" Goransson said.

"Yes. Are you suggesting you knew nothing of it?" Omar asked.

"Nothing at all," Goransson said. "Truly. What makes you think the State Department had anything to do with it?"

"I appear to have become a subject of intense interest to your department of the U.S. government. And to be blunt, I do not like the feeling of being under surveillance once I get to Iraq."

"You won’t be under surveillance from our team," Goransson said. "That’s why I wanted to talk with you and Rosaria in private before you continue on alone to Istanbul."

"Alone," Omar said. Turning to Rosaria he said, "Parting so soon?"

"An audience with the Pope for me this afternoon," Rosaria said.

"That puts my doubts to rest." To Goransson, Omar said, "You’ll make your own inquiry as to why the car rental manager spoke with me as he did?" Omar repeated much of what James had said at the agency.

"I knew nothing of this," Rosaria said. "If there’s any strain, we can postpone further contact until you’ve familiarized yourself with the situation in Iraq."

"If you don’t want to help us, Omar," Goransson said, "that’s up to you. You’re an American citizen. I assure you no one wants to kill you."

"Then let me ask you to inquire of the New York police why someone was at Kennedy before I returned my car, someone making an inquiry."

"You need to tell me more if I’m to have anything to go on," Goransson said.

"Jess E. James, the manager of the rental car agency at Kennedy - a cool slow-talking guy who really let me have it for driving on his crappy tire until it was mangled beyond repair - said someone was there making an inquiry just minutes after I arrived about my flat tire."

"It could have been the New York police," Rosaria said. "They’re so tense about anything that could be related to terrorism. You were probably reported to the police by an eyewitness on the freeway. They may have thought you were trying to cause a disturbance, to panic the other motorists."

"I’m sorry if anyone else was scared," Omar said.

"It was probably someone with TSA," Goransson said. "The manager probably called them about the blown tire, and they could have thought it was the result of a bomb. They’re all over the airports these days."

"Surely not a bomb," Omar said. "It was an accident. A flat tire."

"They have to check each vehicle when it’s returned to make sure it’s left clean," Rosaria said.

"I know," Omar said.

Turning to Goransson, Rosaria said, "Can you imagine what he thought when he opened the trunk and saw a shredded tire?"

"What makes you think it was in the trunk?" Omar asked.

"It must have been. Right?"

"Yes."

"They jump on anything out of the order at Kennedy anymore," Rosaria said. "You’re lucky you weren’t detained."

"Sounds miraculous," Goransson said. "Were you hurt?"

"Not at all," Omar said.

"I think the rental manager was just trying to scare you, Omar," Goransson said. "Because actually you shouldn’t drive on the rim of a blown tire at sixty-five miles an hour for over a mile. There must have been hundreds of people who saw you and could have taken your license plate, called the police. And yes, I’ll contact our New York office and ask them to make an unofficial inquiry as to why the manager confronted you. Now, to the business of how you can help us track down some of the looted treasures."

"Everything is set up for you to contact me or Phil at the U.S. Special Envoy’s legation in Baghdad," Rosaria said, "if at any time you feel you are onto the trail of some of the loot."

"You’re doing this as well?" Omar asked. "Risking it all to go to Iraq?"

"I believe America is doing its utmost to get the situation over there in order and the economy humming," Rosaria said. "I want to be part of it."

"Good of you," Omar said.

Rosaria.

"Will this be your first trip to Baghdad?" Omar asked. "And when will you be there?"

"I’ve been there several times since the war ended May first," Rosaria said.

"I don’t believe the war has ended," Omar said. "It is a guerrilla war now. I know how the Iraqi men reason. They caved under the first wave. Now, they’re going to use every street corner to carry on the war."

"And I am on assignment there for the next two weeks," Rosaria continued, looking rather miffed that he had been interrupted, "beginning next Sunday, July twentieth."

Omar was given a packet with phone numbers and addresses, army intelligence maps showing the condition of roads in the countryside in southern Iraq, a detailed city road map for central Baghdad, and close-up photos of some of the looted treasures pulled from the museum archives.

"Enjoy the next leg of your flight," Goransson said. "You’ll make sure he finds his gate," he said to Rosaria.

"No passing the buck here, we’ll find it," Rosaria said as he and Omar stepped out into the public part of the terminal.

"Thanks," Omar said. "Geez, you’re sure you know what you’re doing?"

"Sure as anything in this world," Goransson said.

"I want to end up in Al-Kuwayt, not Cairo."

After Omar and Rosaria had walked away, Goransson stepped back into the airport legation office and called someone on an intercom. He dialed a number using a desktop PC.

"Condoleezza Rice’s office," a woman’s voice said.

"This is Phil Goransson in Rome. Put me through to Stephen Bradley."

"Mr. Bradley is at a press conference," the NSA receptionist said.

"Then I’d like to talk with one of her assistants."

"One moment please."

Omar found a comfortable window seat on the Alitalia flight to Istanbul and sat looking out at the Rome landscape as the jet banked and began to circle over the city on takeoff, on schedule at 9:42 a.m. that Tuesday.

He could make out the Villa Borghese and the Tiber. The jet flew almost directly over Citta Del Vaticano, the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica casting its golden reflected light over the area.

In the center seat to Omar’s left sat a tall thirty-five year old man with wire-rim glasses, thick brown beard, wearing a long-sleeve striped cotton/polyester dress shirt and tan slacks. He told Omar that he was a chef at the Quattro Mori restaurant on the Via Santa Maria delle Fornaci near the Vatican. "I’m travelling to Istanbul for a week to sample the food and visit the Hagia Sophia," he said.

On schedule around noon, the jet landed at Istanbul’s Ataturk airport. Omar did not have to leave the cabin this time, as there was to be a thirty minute refueling stop and departure for Al-Kuwayt at about twenty-five minutes past the hour.

On takeoff, the passenger who took the center seat next to Omar identified himself as an Iraqi native who had been living in Turkey since just before the First Gulf War. He was fifty-one years in age, with a hardened face, his clothes rather out-of-date but clean and pressed, a black suit with slacks a bit tight at the waist, white long-sleeve dress shirt, no tie. He had just a faint odor of tobacco about him.

"I am so glad to be going home," he said in a dialect of Arabic spoken in the Fallujah area, notably different in some pronunciation from the standard Arabic used in Baghdad. "My name is Mamad Ibrahim al-Shawaf."

"Omar Hammad Aboudi." He spoke using the Southern Mesopotamian version of Arabic prevalent among academics and the professionals of southern Iraq.

There was a haze over the Golden Horn and Bosphorus. Soon the jet was headed south over the Sea of Marmara.

"Just a few hours for the flight and we’ll be there," Mamad said.

"What did you do before leaving Iraq?" Omar asked as he flipped open his laptop and logged onto the Internet.

"I was with the Special Air Service. I saw Saddam, or one of his doubles, often, as I was in charge of inspecting his aircraft, looking for bombs, anything out of the order."

"Do you think he’s still alive?" Omar asked.

"I am sure of it. And for one, I would like to see him brought to trial."

"So would I," Omar said.

"Paper?" Mamad asked, holding up a thick edition of a leading Istanbul journal.

"Thank you." Omar skimmed over the Arabic paper and his attention became focused on one page, with a note written in Arabic by the side about the looted treasures.

"Your handwriting?" Omar asked, pointing to the script on the page.

"Yes. My passion is to work with the authorities in Iraq that are trying to recover more of the artifacts. A tragic loss to our heritage."

"More than anyone can comprehend," Omar said. "These names, these men whom the article quotes as saying they have been approached by questionable, ‘third parties of dubious record and identity, who want to convert some of the treasure to currency.’ Do you think these art brokers would refuse to buy the most well-known stolen items?"

"No doubt they would have little choice but to report such to the authorities," Mamad said, "whether in Damascus or Istanbul. But the lesser known items are being bought and sold already on the black markets around the world for a fraction of what they are worth."

"I have heard this as well," Omar said. "I know an art dealer in Dearborn who has been approached via the Internet, and not sure if it was just a hoax, a fraud, by someone claiming to have Iraqi artifacts to be sold, no questions asked."

"What did your art dealer friend do?"

"He reported it to the F.B.I. He’s Arab-American, and they actually thanked him."

"The raids on the museums are universally condemned," Mamad said. "The looting of homes is even worse. People who thought they were safe having survived the war are being attacked at night by robbers, intruders who steal all their valuables and threaten to massacre their entire family if they report it to the authorities. And the block raids by U.S. soldiers are hell."

"What authorities?" Omar said. "The only authorities in Iraq today are the American foot soldier, usually a teenager, pointing a sub-machine gun at women in veils, old men with no teeth, and unemployed men with moustaches who want to take the law into their own hands, and the Shiia militia such as Ayatollah al-Bakim’s private army."

"What part of Iraq is your birthplace?"

"I grew up in the marshlands near Ur, close to al-Batha and Larsa," Omar said.

"The most ancient of birthplaces," Mamad said.

"I tried to climb up the ziggurat at Uruk when I was six. I could see it from our home, every day, even through the desert haze. When I was finally old enough, I climbed it one morning, stood at the top, and thought I could see every point in southern Iraq from there."

"Do you have family who will be waiting for you at the airport in Al-Kuwayt?" Mamad asked.

"No. My brother was killed in the Iran-Iraq war. My mother was a spinner and a weaver. She died when I was thirteen. My father was a riverman. He died when I was twelve. I have a sister who lives near Mosul with her husband and three kids. They are afraid to travel with all the gunfire and rocket attacks along the highway. I am to meet them within two weeks."

Mamad had an older computer notebook that he took out and turned on. "I have an appointment with a group of unpaid journalists who are trying to start a news service modeled on the old Iraqi News Service. A national press syndicate. They believe that now with Iraq having a degree of freedom of speech that they can make money from it some day. They have a website and some computers stored in an abandoned office building near the National Theatre. When the electricity is on, or when they can access the Internet with a laptop, they update the content. Here’s the dot com address."

"Al-Babil.com," Omar said.

"I plan to be in Baghdad at least three weeks before heading back to Istanbul."

"I also have an itinerary to stay three weeks," Omar said.

"I plan to leave by train for Syria sooner," Mamad said, "if the situation deteriorates and a revolt erupts."

"Do you think there will be an attempt to oust the Americans?" Omar asked.

"Any day now something could burst," Mamad said. "Too many hot days with no water for people well-educated and who know how the Americans live and ask why they have done this to Iraq. The Americans are out for our oil, and like a disgusting blood-engorged tick that has grown to ten times its normal size attached to a starving dog, they have swollen to a purple parasite and the slightest pressure will cause them to burst with a river of American blood. That is what they say on Al-Jazeera. It is like it has been ordained by Allah that when the breaking point arrives, it will be the Americans who are broken. That time is so near, so my good contacts at Al-Babil.com assure me, that we could all be swept up in a tidal wave."

They exchanged cards and phone numbers. "You are here to help our homeland in this nightmare, out of loyalty to Iraq," Mamad said as the jet landed safely at Al-Kuwayt airport.

"I will soon be where I have wanted to be for over twenty years," Omar said, "out of respect for all the people of Iraq did for me, and gratitude. I will be staying at the Palestine Hotel for a time, to rest, to see what I can do in Baghdad. Then to the South to see the marshland where I grew up, and then to Mosul, to spend a week with my sister and her family."

"Eyes at midday need good ultraviolet sunshades," Mamad said.

"I have two pair in my tote bag," Omar said. "You can call me."

"Thank you. And you can call me as well."

On either side of the airport were lofty columns of cloud, dust, and smoke, such that one could not determine where the manmade and earthbound particles ended, and where the mists of the upper atmosphere began. They could make out the enormous oil tankers in Kuwait Bay and the Persian Gulf.

They proceeded to their luggage and through customs. Omar was allowed to pass through with only the usual delay. He could see that the customs official noticed something on his computer when Mamad gave his name, and the journalist was asked to step out of the line to talk to another Kuwaiti civil servant.

Omar showed his Iraqi passport, which had been renewed five years earlier when it appeared there might be a softening of U.N. sanctions, and it drew the curiosity of the next official who was to pass on his entry into the oil-rich nation. Holding aloft Omar’s documents, he called over to an American diplomatic attaché with a pager and cell phone attached to his belt, who flipped through every page quickly, along with Omar’s visa, comparing details with his U.S. passport, then handed them back to him saying in English, "Welcome to Kuwait City, Mr. Aboudi. I’m Stan Bearden."

Omar had been asked by every other official along his journey as to the purpose of his entry into Kuwait, and to each of them he had given the polite response, "To return to my homeland in Iraq immediately." He wondered if they were paying any attention at all.

"Do you need help getting to the border?" Bearden asked.

"Where can I find a good taxi?" Omar asked.

"There are drivers outside willing to take you that far, but they’re unwilling or unable to drive into Iraq. You’ll have to find another cab at Safwan. That’s the least troublesome point at which to cross. The border was just reopened three weeks ago. Once you’re inside Iraq, we’ll have more influence to help you if you need."

"I plan to take the train from Al-Basrah to Baghdad. Are the trains running?"

"Are the trains running?" Bearden asked. "Good question. The last reliable information I had was there is a service that operates three times daily between Baghdad and Al-Basrah."

"I hope I can catch the evening express to Baghdad," Omar said.

"Good luck. If you need any help while in Kuwait, here’s my card," Bearden said. "I have connections here."

"Thank you."

Omar found a porter who would help him with his three suitcases, briefcase, and tote bag and stepped out in the harsh afternoon sunlight. He put on a pair of sunglasses and motioned to a taxi.

A price was agreed upon for the 100 kilometer drive to the border. All items safely stowed in the trunk of the four door navy blue sedan, they headed north.

The border crossing point was heavily patrolled by U.S. military in tanks, trucks, and soldiers on foot patrols. Omar’s driver was obliged to pull around at several points and to turn into the parking area at the crossing. He helped carry Omar’s bags inside to a legation office and was paid a ten dollar tip for his efforts.

On parting with his last link with the world outside Iraq, and about to step into a world of devastated political, economic, social, and physical infrastructure, Omar stood staring at a thirty-year old U.S. military officer seated under a banner reading COALITION and calming going through all his papers. The name plate over the breast pocket of the soldier’s uniform read Robert Kelly, with 3^rd Division Captain on the right shoulder.

All of Omar’s luggage was searched. Nothing was damaged as best he could tell, and he was advised that, "This is a formality, as you are aware of the state of affairs in Iraq at this time. There are curfews in every part of the country. You are advised not to venture into any areas where the insurrection is building strength."

He handed Omar a sheet with the latest list of diseases rampant in parts of Iraq. He was told that milk was dangerous, water should always be considered suspect and possibly contaminated. That looters were running amuck in most of the towns and villages, and "sneaking about everywhere else." That the buses were running in Baghdad. That he could rent a car there if he wished.

"Do you have an International Driving Permit and third party insurance?" Kelly asked.

"Yes."

He told Omar that telephone service was still severely disrupted and to avoid using surface mail.

"If you wish to get across the border, you’ll need to have this new military certificate. State informed me about your planned visit. You’ll need cash for everything in most towns. Plastic isn’t accepted in most parts of the country now, or so I’m told."

Omar was told to eat only well-cooked meat and fish, preferably served hot, "even in the desert heat."

"I grew up here," Omar said, "and with no air-conditioning."

He was told that diarrhea, dysentery, and typhoid fever were common.

"I’ve had my vaccinations," Omar said.

"I’m sure you did. A lot of tourists visit the Baghdad ice cream shops, to get a refreshing snack in the one hundred ten degree weather."

"Best not to," Kelly said. "The milk supply is tainted. They don’t boil the milk."

"I’ll make it a point to boil the milk first," Omar said.

you."

Outside in the small border town were several parked taxis with young men in white galabiyyas, sporting black moustaches, waiting for their next customer.

Omar found one who was willing to drive him to Al-Basrah, about 40 kilometers to the north.

"Do you know when the last train leaves for Baghdad from Al-Basrah?" Omar asked.

"Not until six, if they are running at all," the driver said.

As they headed into the countryside, Omar mentioned he had grown up in the marshlands near Ur.

The driver, about twenty-four years of age, said that his father had lived along a marsh while a boy, not far from Larsa.

"What was his name?" Omar asked.

When the driver gave his father’s name, Ali Agca Umar, Omar let out a shout, saying that he remembered a boy from their village with that name.

"And his father’s name was Ali al-Deen Umar," Omar said.

"Yes," the driver said.

"Then that was your grandfather?"

"That was grandfather’s name, yes."

"Your father and I were schoolboys together," Omar said. "What is your name?"

"Othman Pasha Umar."

"Is your father alive?"

"No. He was killed in the Iran-Iraq war in nineteen eighty-three," Othman Pasha said.

Omar expressed his regrets on hearing that and recited memories of the Umar family that he had known and asked about Othman Pasha’s mother and other relatives.

"She lives in Mosul," Othman Pasha said. "With my younger sister and her family. We are Shiia. My brother-in-law is with SCIRI. He is a spokesman for SCIRI in the Mosul area."

Omar asked if Othman Pasha’s brother-in-law had been questioned by the Coalition forces about his allegiance to the devoutly Islamic group, which has stated its express intentions of leading Iraq to a republic modeled on that of Iran.

"Several times," Othman Pasha said. "He has been detained and beaten by American soldiers who deny what they did to him when he reported it to the civil administration."

Omar expressed shock. Why had this happened?

The best that they could make out was that a false tip had been given to the military commander in the Mosul area about his brother-in-law. "Mohammad ibn Abd al-Shahaf is his name. He was shoved up against the wall of a cell by two soldiers who said they would like to kill all the Islamic extremists." He had been released after intervention by aid workers who knew him personally and who had complained directly to the U.S. Special Envoy’s office in Baghdad.

"I still have a brother who lives in the village," Othman Pasha said. "He believes it is the will of Allah that he stay there, since most of the surrounding marshland was destroyed by Saddam when he ordered it drained, and most of the madan were driven out. He says it is like living in the past now, but a past he would not trade for anything in Baghdad. I left after I reached eighteen, because I found nothing for me to do in the village."

Omar asked about the conditions in the surrounding villages, the few of which had been spared.

"It is like in the days of Sumer," Othman Pasha said. "Save some modern clothes, they still fish and live in their reed huts as before. I am glad our district right on the Euphrates was not disturbed."

"I as well," Omar said. "That must be the only reason why it was spared, since the Euphrates tends to flood in that section of the valley so often it would have been difficult to reclaim any land for long."

"It wasn’t reclamation," Othman Pasha said. "It was genocide."

"I know."

Omar took out his laptop, typed in the brother-in-law’s name, and asked for the family address in Mosul, as he planned to visit his own sister in the area with two weeks. "They would have known each other, your mother and my sister, as we knew your father’s family well."

They talked the rest of the trip about the plight of people living in the border regions now that the government had fallen.

When they arrived at the train station in Al-Basrah, Omar was reminiscing on his childhood living along the marsh and the daily sound of water lapping alongside the foundation of their hut. He paid a ten dollar tip to Othman Pasha, who helped him check his luggage inside the terminal.

His three-hundred mile railroad trip would take over six hours, if there were no unexpected delays.

He bought a ticket for a sleeping berth in an air-conditioned coach and found a comfortable bed in which to rest after a meal in the diner.

He fell asleep for a couple hours, awoke to go to the men’s room, tried to sleep some more, and awoke again around one a.m. when the train was pulling into Baghdad’s Eastern Railway Station.

He recovered all his luggage on the platform and found a porter with a cart who would help him out to the taxi stand, where the night air was humid and thick, still over ninety degrees out in the dark.

Three young unemployed men standing nearby pointed to a line of white four-door cars parked across the way. They shouted to one of them, "Abdullah, Abdullah!" An alert driver in one of the white cars started his engine before the others, turned on his headlights, sped across the lanes, and slowed down to where Omar was standing with his luggage. The driver rolled down his window, got out, and said, "Best rate in Baghdad."

"Do you have air-conditioning?" Omar asked.

"Yes, sir."

They agreed on a price.

"Then take me to the Palestine Hotel."

"Yes, sir."

They set out along the main road to the southwest, passed under the Khalid bin al Walid Expressway, drove through the Ar-Rasafah district, drove through Firdos Square, and parked at the 439-room five-star Palestine at Street 47, Mahallat 102.

"Your hotel, sir," Abdullah said.

Omar got out, stretched his legs, paid Abdullah a hefty tip, and stood staring at the 14^th of Ramadan Mosque on the opposite side of the square.

He got down on his knees facing the mosque, lit up by some exterior security lighting, and prayed a minute.

When he stood up, Abdullah said, "We all pray now that Allah deliver our country from the darkness."

"We all pray for light," Omar said.

"Nice bar, gym," Abdullah said, gesturing toward the hotel. He began unloading Omar’s luggage.

"I don’t drink," Omar said. "The gym sounds nice."

"I can take Omar Hammad Aboudi wherever he is needed. I have a satellite phone. You can get a message to me through the desk here, if my phone is down, if the satellite is not working."

"I’ll remember. Can you drive me to An-Nasiriyah on Friday?"

Abdullah swallowed hard, smiling. "Yes. When can I meet you here?"

"I’m not sure, but I will need a taxi. I do not want to travel alone. I have an interest in visiting my birthplace and to inquire about a matter in Al-Basrah. Could you meet me here at one p.m. today?"

"Right here?"

"Yes."

His watch gave the time as 1:30 a.m. "I’ll be here at one," Abdullah said. They finished with the luggage, and a porter stepped up to help Omar from there on.

"I need to rest, a late breakfast, then I plan to visit the University in the afternoon, then dinner. Tomorrow, Thursday, I want to see more of the city. I would like you to meet me again. Can you?"

"Yes."

"Then I’ll need your help this afternoon, much of Thursday, and Friday in the afternoon and evening, and Saturday."

"Thank you."

"Here’s my satellite phone number," Omar said.

The bellman helped carry his luggage into the hotel lobby. He checked in, went to his room, and laid down on the bed and dozed off. It was around three a.m. when he awoke, found that there was just a trickle of water, cleaned-up as best he could, and called room service.

"What can you bring me at this hour?" he asked.

"Sandwiches, chips, soft drinks," he was told.

He placed an order.

"It will be fifteen minutes," the room service clerk said.

Twenty minutes later, his food arrived. It looked like it had been carefully prepared, but the portions were disappointingly small. He called room service again. "Could you send me another snack? Chicken sandwich, rice, tea? Thank you."

The phone rang almost eight times before Omar answered in his room in Baghdad later Wednesday morning.

"Your wake-up call, sir," the young male Arabic voice said.

"Thank you."

It was just past nine a.m.

To his relief, there was enough water pressure so he could shower and clean up, shaving all except his moustache, which he was letting grow for the first time in years.

He had noticed that many of the Iraqi men on the train the day before and at the station had full moustaches so he had decided to let his grow for the time being. Full beard wouldn’t look too bad either, he thought as he shaved. No need to worry about water if I don’t shave.

He went to the restaurant around 9:45 a.m. and ordered a breakfast complete with eggs with hollandaise sauce, pitta bread, fresh orange juice, and grapefruit.

The waiter said they had no grapefruit, only guava and tangerines.

"A tangerine then," Omar said.

To his direct left, and also at a couple of the tables behind him, were journalists from the BBC, NPR, and two of the leading papers in Paris.

Their animated conversations turned to the growing debate about the discredited claim by Bush in his State of the Union address about the effort by Saddam to purchase uranium from Africa.

Anne Garells, who had returned recently to Baghdad, was talking with John Overbrook and Johnny Dymond. Dymond said that he had heard from a colleague at the BBC in London that the source of the claims that the British intelligence dossier on the subject of the WMD’s contained forgeries was a man likely to become a pawn in the international tug-of-war to save the credibility of Bush and Blair.

Gilligan had not divulged who the source was, "but many believe him to be David Kelly, who is to speak before a Parliamentary committee tomorrow," Garells said.

Omar overheard the reporters speaking about the harsh treatment of an Iraqi man who had mistaken American troops bursting into his home at midnight for looters, and who had pulled a gun and fired upon the soldiers before being subdued. He and his father had been arrested. His brother had disappeared after being wounded by the soldiers.

The description of how the man, in his early fifties and overweight, had been stripped naked and kept awake for a week by being kept standing or on his knees, drew Omar’s attention such that he turned to the reporters and asked if he could introduce himself.

"I’d like to know more about that story," Omar said. "That is torture."

When he was given the name of the victim, Omar asked if the reporters could tell him the man’s address.

"I knew a young man with that name, about ten years older than me, when I worked at the Ministry of Oil," Omar said.

Garells especially wanted to speak more with Omar. So after breakfast, they met in the lounge on the mezzanine level of the hotel.

They talked about the U.S. envoy and his latest news conference.

"He has it down to an art," Omar said, "how to say nothing substantive and appear to be a missionary of Western culture here to teach us the errors of our ways."

They talked about oil: the fields, the rigs and pipelines. He wanted to know what Iraqis had told her about security measures, having to carry the right certificate just to get a ration, safe passage home at night, and what they felt about U.S. troops ordering everybody on their patrol "up against the wall," machine-guns trained over their heads twenty-four hours a day.

Garells said that some of the people she talked to were putting what faith they had in the newly appointed Governing Council. "They believe in democracy and that it will save Iraq. But for the most part, the Iraqis I’ve met are distrustful of everyone now. They do not believe the Americans; they have been betrayed so often by their own government under Saddam that they do not know where to turn."

Omar mentioned what he had been told the day before by Othman Pasha about his brother-in-law in Mosul. Garells said she had heard much about SCIRI and that the military were rumored to be about to crack down on the group because it was becoming so strong.

"There was a raid on a SCIRI facility in Fallujah about two weeks ago," she said.

Until the new ministers were appointed, a new constitution ratified, a general election, and a new government formed, there were expectations that the guerrilla activity and looting would become worse. "For many," Garells said, "SCIRI and the Islamic fundamentalists are the only source of a sense of security and safety."

He mentioned the rumors that he had read about on the Internet in Iraqi chat rooms that Saddam was hiding somewhere in the region around Tikrit and planning to return to power, "…sometime next year."

"Accompanied by Marco Polo, I’m sure," Garells said, and they both laughed.

The main concern she was hearing from Iraqi women, and this was commonplace now throughout all Iraq, was their fear of going out – "at any time of day, without a male relative."

There had been many abductions and rapes since the war ended. "They’re scared of being sold into slavery as prostitutes," Garells said.

There was a report that General John Abazaid’s flight into Baghdad Airport had been targeted by rocket-propelled grenades and that a reserve unit from Oklahoma had been aboard the plane and laughed themselves silly, thinking it all to be fun.

"For the commander," Garells said, "it was a fearful joy. The flight crew heard his voice over the wind saying ‘I was terrified.’"

"Regardless of what will happen with the occupation timetable," Omar said, "I have a sense of being home at last. And new ministers will be appointed, and I’ll take the black train from the Eastern Railway Station if the airport is still closed, stand aside where there is an ambush, fly the approach to Al-Kuwayt Airport as often as it takes, and never look behind, for we will have liberty in Iraq again."

He thanked her for listening to his stories, for sharing news about what it had been like in Baghdad reporting the war and the aftermath into which he was venturing alone.

"I’m going to visit Baghdad University," Omar said. They had talked over half an hour.

He told her, "I have an appointment with one of the department chairmen. It will be no surprise to me if he, and others I meet there, all want to apply for a position at Ann Arbor."

Omar rested more that morning, worked out half an hour in the hotel gym, strolled about the grounds, and checked his e-mail after having charged the battery on his laptop. The wireless satellite connection to the world wide web took only half a minute. He was online in Baghdad. There were messages from Nabih, Mamad al-Shawaf, and the staff at the university.

He had a lunch of kibbah hammoud, apples and dried fruits including dates, almond mehalabeya, and tea.

Dressed in a white cotton/polyester short-sleeve dress shirt, tan slacks, in soft tan walking shoes, Omar stepped outside into the one hundred fifteen degree heat and looked about for Abdullah’s cab.

"Over here," Abdullah called out, parked along the curb.

"To Baghdad University."

Abdullah drove along the eastern bank of the Tigris River as it curved around to the southwest. Several cars moving in the opposite direction slowed down at one intersection, and the young male drivers called over to Abdullah and others that there was a checkpoint on an adjoining street.

Abdullah smiled. Omar noticed that Iraqi drivers of several vehicles were hitting their brakes, tires squealing, and turning toward the area where the checkpoint was underway. He looked over to Abdullah.

"The only recreation some of the men have these days is to drive into a checkpoint and watch the Americans sweating like pigs in their full body armor in one hundred twenty degree afternoon heat," Abdullah said. "The soldiers brag that they set up the roadblocks to punish us, when another soldier is killed or wounded, like it hurts us. It hurts them more than us, and many young men make a game of driving to every roadblock to enjoy the sight of the U.S. boys enduring the heat."

Abdullah found a parking space near the College of Letters at the University and let Omar out. He was to return to the hotel two hours later. "I’ll look for you here sometime between three-thirty and four," Omar said.

He stared in disbelief at the damage to campus buildings and monuments from the precision bombings and from mortar and gunfire during the battles fought there during March and April.

Unbelievable, he thought; must have been some stray bombs. He walked toward the library building, expecting it to be locked and deserted. He had heard that looters had ransacked most of the University facilities and that professors still on the faculty were steadfastly working for slow pay or no salary at all out of offices with little or no furniture, bringing a few books, their own PC’s, and trying to recreate the semblance of academic life before the war. Some classes were being held, but many had been cancelled since April, and those that were still being offered were limited due to the lack of electricity and the looted auditoriums and seminar rooms.

Although the University was officially open, it was chaotic in most of the halls of learning. Until the new government could be formed and funding guaranteed for the state-owned educational institutions, it was unlikely that Baghdad University would even be able to regain accreditation.

As Omar strolled across the campus, there were groups of students, younger men in slacks and short-sleeve dress shirts, and young women in conservative dress, blouses, or completely covered except for their faces, walking about, sitting where there was shade, quietly talking about the future and the resumption of classes.

A group of five such young Iraqis, looking well-dressed and sitting on the stone stairway in front of the library, watched Omar as he walked up. He stopped to ask them if anyone were inside.

"No one there today except military guards and a few staff," a young man told Omar. "They do not like us to venture inside as it is off limits. All the buildings are guarded now, but there is nothing left in most of them to guard. The professors and staff are allowed inside, and we still go to classes to learn something, but we know it will be years before it is the way it was before."

"I don’t dare go outside my own university campus," a young woman said, looking distraught, "because of fear of what could happen to me out there on the street."

"It’s also dangerous for us to venture alone in the buildings," another young man said. "The guards could accuse us of trying something wrong." The students explained to Omar that their only reason for being there was that a professor was due at the library around one p.m. to talk with them about what he knew of plans by the Governing Council to ask for funds from the Americans to rebuild the worst damaged buildings.

Professor Mustafa Hussein al-Awadi was the name the young man said had an appointment to meet them. "And already he is a few minutes late. No doubt, delayed at a checkpoint."

Omar told them that he also had talked to Professor al-Awadi that morning and asked to meet him around one p.m. "I knew Mustafa Hussein when I worked in the Ministry of Oil more than twenty years ago. He was my sponsor to go to the United States. He needs my help now."

The students became enlivened to learn that Omar had lived in America for over twenty years and of his return to his homeland. They were talking quite avidly about the collapse of the government and the chaos in Baghdad when Professor al-Awadi came around a corner at 1:15 p.m. and waved to them all.

He was a vigorous man in his mid-sixties, with a robust walk, greying dark brown hair with some white, and stood at about six feet tall. He had on neatly pressed dark grey slacks, a white long-sleeve dress shirt, slender yellow tie with blue dots casually loosened, and carried a large manila envelope with clasp bursting with papers.

"Omar Hammad Aboudi!" he said, embracing and exchanging kisses with Omar.

"Professor Mustafa Hussein al-Awadi," Omar said. "Allah be praised, as I have worried so much about you and the people here at the University. How is your wife?’

His wife was ailing somewhat, saw a doctor every two weeks for a thyroid condition, and was at home with their son, an unemployed engineer.

Al-Awadi was a tenured full professor of Middle Eastern History and Archeology. One of the students asked him to place the Second Gulf War and its aftermath in a historical context.

Standing there in front of the library under the bright sun, al-Awadi said, "This is not Iraq." The students and Omar listened in hushed silence. "This is no longer the Republic of Iraq, nor a future Islamic state run by SCIRI or the Americans. This is Sumer. We are living in Sumer. Looters made off the with bronze head of Sargon from the Archeological Museum. Now, we all wear masks of bronze, and must not fear, for all of Iraq is our temple, and arid land or irrigated land from one of those decadent palaces, it is once again Babylon. We will be rebuilding more than Iraq, for modern Iraq is gone. We are rebuilding ziggurats of the Sumerian spirit. Each day we survive this chaos we have added another level to these ziggurats of the civilizations to come."

The students and Omar stood with hands clasped in front of them listening to the words of encouragement.

"We are already on a foundation of ancient bedrock, and stone by stone the lower levels of this ziggurat are being laid," al-Awadi said. "Day by day, the smaller and smaller concentric circles, one built atop the other, rebuild the spirit of ancient Sumer, and this begins again the cycle begun four, five thousand years ago. Everything happens in cycles.

"The world has been set back four thousand five hundred years by this, this war of preemption. We are at the beginning of a new era, and all future civilizations will depend upon what we are doing here. This was the cradle of learning, literature, music, prayers, hymns, theology, when the ziggurats of Uruk, Nippur, and Ur were built. This is today the cradle of the civilized world of the next four thousand years."

Omar remembered how Professor al-Awadi had held a lecture hall of skeptical students under the spell of his oratory when he monitored a class as an eighteen-year old eager for a scholarship to study in the United States. He had finished his normal schooling at age seventeen, moved to Baghdad to find a job, and made his first contacts in the academic world there.

Omar asked what had happened in the library, about the rare books and manuscripts. Al-Awadi had a glimmer in his eye as he took a rather official-looking envelope out of his folder and said, "I have been given authorization by the Special Envoy’s office to go inside the library as needed to help coordinate the recovery of the collection, getting the computers updated as to what we still have and what was lost."

He asked for volunteers, and all the students eagerly offered their services. They walked up the steps and opened the main doors. Just inside was a receptionist who knew al-Awadi and had been told of his coming. They were all greeted with thanks for their intentions to help with the bibliographical work. Two U.S. soldiers in full body armor and carrying machine guns were standing stiffly in the main lobby to one side and took little notice of the Iraqis and their meeting.

Al-Awadi escorted his new team, accompanied by Omar - who wanted to learn in what ways he could help - to a second floor administration area with computers. The electricity was not working. It was stifling. The library director, a man of fifty-five years dressed mostly in black, including a black dress shirt, came out to talk with them.

He took the students’ names and said that they would be given identity cards allowing them to come inside for the volunteer work, "If you adhere to a strict schedule, for security. The receptionist must always know when you are coming." They all filled out time cards indicating what days during the rest of July when they would be able to return.

There was a room behind glass walls that had housed an assortment of rare books that had been pillaged. They were led there and asked to begin making a list of what was left.

Around four p.m., Omar asked to talk with Professor al-Awadi in private. They went out into a deserted corridor and Omar mentioned his interest in organizing help at the University of Michigan to replace "as much of what was stolen as possible."

How could this be done, with the auspices of Baghdad University, "even though it is all tentative at this time?" Omar asked.

Al-Awadi said he would talk with the interim board of trustees the following Monday, and that he was sure they would approve of Omar’s plan.

"Can you put something in writing for me to take to them?" he asked Omar.

"Absolutely. I’ll also send e-mails to the dean in Michigan, and to CMENAS, to see if we can make this an official departmental project."

As his driver Abdullah was due to meet him outside before long, Omar decided that it was time to take his leave, and al-Awadi escorted him to the entrance. There, Omar invited his old mentor to bring his wife Zubaida and their son and daughter-in-law to the Palestine Hotel that evening for dinner. "My treat."

"We have no plans for tonight. That is most kind of you."

"Six-thirty to seven?" Omar said.

"Yes, six-thirty."

"I’ll be in the lounge," Omar said.

"We’ll look for you then."

Outside, Omar saw that Abdullah was already waiting for him and waved across from a parking lot. The taxi came up to the curb where Omar stood, and he got in.

"Back to the hotel."

Omar dressed in a suit jacket for the evening affair at the Palestine Hotel restaurant. He noticed that the bar was rather overwhelmed that evening with foreigners, and he decided to sit on a sofa in the lavish corridor outside the restaurant. He had reservations for a table of five.

While seated there, he noticed Mamad Ibrahim al-Shawaf and another man coming out of the bar. Omar nodded and stood up as Mamad stopped. They embraced.

"Omar Hammad Aboudi," Mamad said. "We meet again."

They talked of the border crossing. Mamad had been detained for almost an hour due to irregularities in his visa, a matter that had only been resolved when the Turkish ambassador to Al-Kuwayt had issued over the phone a verbal confirmation that Mamad was indeed permitted to travel on his Turkish visa for another three weeks.

Mamad was with an Iraqi who gave his name as Shabib Abu Mardam, another unemployed journalist formerly with the Iraqi News Agency. They talked about the fate since the war of some of the old Iraqi newspapers: Al Muntadah, Al Ba’th, Al-Thawra, Gymhurlya.

Shabib saw Iraq as a journalist’s training ground, as there were close to one hundred fifty newspapers that had just begun publishing since the fall of the Baathist regime. "And the Americans have to respect the freedom of the new Iraqi press. It is where I want to be, as I am certain the action in Arab print today, in Baghdad especially, is going to determine the future of our country."

"You know some of the editors of the new journals?" Omar said.

"Yes, and with all that is happening every day, in the whirlwind we hear about that is Baghdad, what we need, what they still need, is content," Shabib said. "The news media are in the dark, literally, no electricity. In one case, I know of a raid by soldiers upon a new journal, the Al-Adala, files and computers confiscated by the Americans, computers hauled off by soldiers or looters, or both. Is there much difference? So we grope in the dark for a new Iraq. And like most of Iraq, we have these irrational rumors floating all over the country, from the new Iranian television news service, Al-Arabiya, even from Al-Jazeera."

"We, myself and two other Iraqi men of education and previous publishing experience of thirty-five years combined, could start our own newspaper, like some college students we met who have their own press," Mamad Ibrahim al-Shawaf said. "You must visit the book market. It is such a luxury for the Iraqi intellectual to be able to browse along one of the fashionable streets, like your Greenwich Village someday, books set out on the paving, the stone and brick paving, like upscale people who have never known censorship or fear about what they read.

"Iraq can explore the entire world again," Mamad continued. "This is why I come to help as it is like the early days of the Internet, so many news outlets all competing to gain readers and that you can be sure will influence the first elections next year, and who is elected the first president."

"The paper with the most readers will have the greatest say in shaping voter opinion," Omar said.

"Exactly," Mamad said. "How I like your view, Omar Hammad Aboudi."

"Many of these novice editors do not know what to make of the future in print," Shabib said. "At least they can print the truth without being arrested by the Intelligence Services."

"I believe our internet site is essential," Mamad said. "I am online already, as a contributing editor, with Al-babil.com. Would you consider giving us an interview?"

"In regards to what?" Omar asked, rather surprised.

"What it means to you as an Iraqi-American to return to see your homeland in such a state, and what you foresee for this land," Mamad said.

"I would need to learn more about this first, to see your website," Omar said.

"You haven’t checked our site yet?" Mamad said.

"I have intended to," Omar said.

"You’ll be impressed," Shabib said.

"Can you call me tomorrow at my hotel?" Mamad asked, seeing that Omar was beginning to step away and that his four guests were arriving and calling, "Good evening."

"Yes," Omar said. "And best of luck in your work."

Professor al-Awadi and his son both looked interested in saying hello to Omar’s two media acquaintances, and they all greeted, exchanging quick remarks about the restaurant, the fate of the newspapers. At one point while the introductions were being made, Omar stood staring placidly at Professor al-Awadi’s daughter-in-law Fatima, a woman in her mid-thirties with a beautiful face, dressed in a long evening gown that covered all of her lower body below the neck.

"At last we have genuine freedom of the press," al-Awadi said as Mamad and Shabib excused themselves, saying how good to meet everyone, and out into the hot evening air they stepped and left in an old car.

The son, Khalid Mahmud al-Awadi, was in his late thirties, tall, with his beard newly grown and still very short, dressed in a pair of navy blue dress slacks, black shoes, and blue knit shirt.

His mother Zubaida, who looked rather pallid and who was in a Muslim woman’s beige and burnt umber kaftan with only her face exposed, excused her listlessness and thanked Omar for the invitation.

Fatima, who had drawn such immediate attention from Omar, looked at him with a pleasant smile. She had studied at Mosul University and obtained a degree in nutrition.

"How is Aminah?" Omar asked.

"Well," Fatima said. "She is still married to Ahmad and lives in Baghdad."

Fatima’s older sister Aminah had been intimate with Omar during his year living and working in Baghdad at the Ministry of Oil before he went to the states to study.

They had met at the University of Baghdad, through a student group that had quickly disbanded after it became evident that they were suspected by Saddam Hussein’s secret police of harboring a negative opinion of the regime.

Omar and Aminah had carried on a very discreet love affair, the first for both of them, and had slept together several times in his Baghdad apartment before he emigrated. They had corresponded for a few months thereafter, and then for reasons he had not understood, she stopped answering his letters. At the time, he thought it had to do with her fear that she would be suspected of sending state secrets abroad. Whatever the case, he had managed through other contacts to learn that she had married within a year after their parting and that she had two children.

Omar had also learned that Fatima had married Professor al-Awadi’s son, as he had continued to correspond with his friends from the University for many years thereafter, and had never completely lost contact with al-Awadi himself, despite the First and Second Gulf Wars.

They all walked unhurriedly into the restaurant and were shown to a comfortable table for five near a window.

"Order when ready," the waiter said placing menus in front of each guest.

The talk turned to the reputation of the hotel restaurant and its head chef. "He has his array of spices that no one but the assistant chefs in his kitchen know how to use, in what proportions," Fatima said. "Cumin seed and cardamoms, peppercorns, coriander, Chinese cinnamon. I know a woman whose son works here, and he says it is like a top secret installation how they guard their recipes from outsiders."

"In that case," Professor al-Awadi said, "we must trust in the reputation of the place and your friend’s son. I’ll have the herbed tomato she’reya soup, chili calamari, tea, and apple trifle."

The others ordered main courses like beyyaya, chili fried calamari rings, and baked fish, with entrees of onion soup and noodle soup.

For deserts, they had the apple trifles and the almond and cream crepe.

Nabih was listening to the NBC evening news on Wednesday, July 16, 2003 in his Grand Hyatt Regency Hotel room, preparing for another dinner out with colleagues. Tom Brokaw was reporting.

Brokaw said, "And finally, a developing story about a harrowing high speed chase that was observed Monday afternoon on a New York City freeway. The details of this are confused to say the least. It involves a car that had a blowout, it is believed due to a shot being fired, but that part is uncertain. This part is certain, that the driver managed to control his vehicle, at great speed, apparently unaware for a time that he was driving on the rim of his rear axle, or that he was being followed by several cars, among them, one in which one of our assistant producers was a passenger, and he is certain that he saw a gun pointed from another vehicle in the left lane.

"Oh, if only I had a VCR in this room," Nabih said to himself. He turned off the television with his remote control and picked up his cell phone. He checked a number and did a speed dial. "Omar, this is Nabih. I’m sorry if I waked you."

Omar had been half-asleep, trying to get some fresh air as the electricity had failed again, and his seventh floor room was stifling.

"It’s just after three a.m. Thursday morning here," Omar said. "You didn’t wake me Nabih. Is everything all right?"

"As far as I know, yes. I’m calling about an incredible news segment that just aired on national television."

"Something about Iraq?" Omar said.

"No. Omar, you’re going to have to listen to all of this. It’s about your tire." Nabih then repeated much of what Brokaw had said about the incident on the Long Island Expressway.

In his room, Omar was beginning to sweat buckets. "Nabih, there is nothing I can say except many thanks for having told me this. I was beginning to think I could trust the NSA, but now I believe this has to do with their visit at the Detroit Airport."

"In that case, they could have a way of intercepting this phone call," Nabih said.

"Or my room could be bugged," Omar said.

Back in CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, an analyst seated at a computer who was indeed listening to what Omar was saying in his room, due to the planting of several listening devices there Wednesday morning before his arrival, turned up the audio on his speaker.

"What makes him think we’d do anything like that?" the analyst said to himself.

"I’m going out on the balcony," Omar said. "The air-conditioning is off, and I need the air."

"Don’t go out there, buddy," the analyst whispered to himself, "you could get shot."

Outside in the night air, Omar gazed at the distant landscape of city lights receding into the desert horizon, fewer and fewer until all disappeared in the darkness of the sands. There was a haze that blurred most of the heavens, save the brighter stars.

"Could you tell me more about what those men wanted?" Nabih asked.

"They wanted me to help trace some of the looted art treasures once I got to Iraq."

"Did they make any demands of you?" Nabih asked.

"No, in fact, they left it up to me to contact them if I learned anything that could lead them to some of the most ancient treasures stolen from the Baghdad Museum and the Iraqi National Museum. They think someone in my old village, or near Ur and Senkeret is hiding the gold and silver billy goat from Uruk."

"Why would they suspect this?"

"I don’t know," Omar said. "They could have leads. The looting was so rampant; they had such rock solid confidence about what they were saying."

"Why would someone try to shoot out your tire, and someone else film it?" Nabih asked.

"I have no idea. I wonder if I’m safer here in my homeland than in Manhattan."

"Did you see anyone pointing a gun at your car?"

"No," Omar said. "I wonder if someone learned I was planning to help the Americans, and like that mayor who was shot near Tikrit, they are warning me."

"I think it could be," Nabih said. "Omar, someone was accessing my laptop that morning at the Detroit Airport."

"Computer hackers?" Omar said.

"They could have used my laptop as a remote wireless device to turn on the speaker on your satellite phone, or your laptop. You had your laptop in the room with those two agents."

"You’re saying that somewhere in the world there is knowledge that I agreed to work with the Americans. Phillip Goransson, the man to our left on the flight."

"I remember his name," Nabih said.

"He gave me more information about all this. I saw him again between planes in Rome."

"A man in his position has to do with more than looted treasure, Omar. We have contacts in Baghdad, if you need someone to help sort this out."

"What contacts?"

"Iraqi-born Americans who have already returned to Iraq to help rebuild, like you. There are two attorneys who are members of the ADC. I’ll e-mail you their satellite phone numbers and names."

"Thank you Nabih."

"Good luck."

"I’m glad you called."

Omar went back into his room, felt the air-conditioning from the vents and smiled to realize that it was back on almost full-strength. He quickly closed the sliding glass door to the balcony, tried to rinse off in the lavatory, and lay down naked on his bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he would ever get any sleep before dawn.

In his home in the Hudson Valley region north of New York City, Derek Stone had also been watching the news with Brokaw. Half an hour later, he went to his study, located in a private alcove of the second floor master bedroom he and his wife had shared for over ten years since moving from Greenwich.

Derek logged onto his computer, scanned a list of e-mail addresses, found the one he had entered from Omar’s card, and sent a brief note about the broadcast, which concluded: "This is rather unreal, Omar, but since you were driving that make and model car when you passed me on 42^nd Street on Monday, and the report is that this happened shortly thereafter, I thought I’d run it by you. Did this happen to you?" SENDER – DEREK STONE.

Back in NSA headquarters in Washington around seven p.m. that Wednesday evening, Beltmann and Lyeforth, who had returned earlier Wednesday from Detroit to help with the internal investigation ordered by Rice into the matter of the plan to shoot out a tire on Omar’s car, sat stunned watching a videotape of the NBC evening news broadcast with the report by Tom Brokaw about the incident on the Long Island Expressway.

"He’s in Baghdad. How soon do you think he’ll learn of this?" Lyeforth asked.

"We’ll have to get over there sooner than we anticipated to keep him happy, in case he takes exception to being a national news story," Beltmann said.

"Mystery news story," Lyeforth said.

"Why can’t things ever go smoothly?" Beltmann asked. "How could Ibrahim and al-Bara have ended up leaving Syria for Iraq on the same train, in the same darn coach?"

"They had over ten hours to get acquainted, and you noticed from the tape how they both love to talk. This whole matter is unbelievable," Lyeforth said.

Condelisa Rice’s assistant, a short dark-haired bald man with glasses, powerfully-built with clear brown eyes, entered the room and asked for more details about the plan. "The two other teams are meeting with the director now. She’s rather put out that you two were the only ones who took it upon yourselves to have the guy’s tire shot out. That’s not the sort of build-up we’re looking for. She just wanted something to counter the growing Islamic extremists in Iraq, and what better way than to smooth the wrinkles with a few man-made miracles."

Lyeforth and Beltmann said almost in unison, "The same train."

The assistant frowned, coughed lightly, and said, "Just consider what will happen now that those two, Ibrahim and al-Bara, have met and started to talk. They’ll figure out they’ve both been approached by the NSA."

"What about the video?" Beltmann asked.

"It’s been analyzed, studied frame by frame at the point where the tire gave out," the assistant said.

"And?"

"It appears that no shot was fired," the assistant said.

"Thank God!" Beltmann and Lyeforth said in unison.

"The marksman’s gun was pointed directly at the tire during the moments just before the tread began to separate," the assistant said. "It was an unexplainable coincidence."

"That must have been a relief to both of them, Drake especially," Lyeforth said.

"Is the marksman up in the air about his future?" Beltmann asked.

"She canned them both, just like she said," Lyeforth said.

Looking at Beltmann, the assistant said, "Up in the air sums it up quite well for that one."

"Oh?"

"He was last seen with his head shaved and wearing a white robe boarding an Air India flight with a one-way ticket to New Delhi," the assistant said.

"You’re kidding," Lyeforth said.

"No," the assistant said. "He has a visa to stay in Tibet for three months, expedited courtesy of the director."

"How accommodating of her," Beltmann said.

"Spiritual epiphany?" Lyeforth said.

"He visited a Buddhist temple in L.A. yesterday and was overheard by a CIA operative asking for the cell phone number of the Dali Lama," the assistant said.

"Operative?" Beltmann said.

"A monk, yes," the assistant said.

"Didn’t Al Gore get in trouble currying favor with some Buddhist monks in two thousand?" Beltmann asked.

"Who knows?" the assistant asked.

"So, we’re off the hook," Lyeforth said.

"You’re booked on flights to Damascus tomorrow," the assistant said.

"One-way tickets?" Beltmann said.

"No sense in budgeting for a return until we’re sure when you’ll be coming out of Iraq," the assistant said.

"Trying to get us out of the country," Beltmann said.

"Chance could have it we’ll end up in the same railcar as Ibrahim and al-Bara," Lyeforth said. "How could the one have missed his train in Damascus and gotten on the car with the other?"

"Matters like this belong in your next report," the assistant said. "She’s paging us now. Gentlemen, after you."

The three got up, left the room, and proceeded down the hall to Rice’s office suite.

After returning to sleep in his hotel room around 3:15 a.m. Thursday morning, Omar had managed to get enough rest that he arose before 8:00 a.m. and prepared for the day of touring Baghdad he had planned out.

He logged onto the internet using his satellite phone and saw the name DEREK STONE in the inbox and opened the message.

He read it quickly, saved it, and sent a reply, Derek, I’m in Baghdad. Safe and sound. I have many suspicions now about what the U.S. government has in mind for me and for Iraq. I wonder even if my e-mail is being monitored. Perhaps we should try encoded messages in the future. Thank you for informing me of this. My colleague at the Grand Hyatt also saw the broadcast and phoned me this morning. Regards, Omar Aboudi."

David Lawrence Cade Copyright 2003 by

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