ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

BY DAVID LAWRENCE CADE

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

He had charged his electric shaver in New York, and it still ran.

He thought of the al-Awadi family and what he had learned about Aminah and the years since he last saw her, that she and her husband were well-off, owing to the successes his family had had with the Iraqi Petroleum Company.

Talk around the restaurant table had turned to the state of education in Iraq before the war, and to what would develop now that the Baathist party was out of power. Was Omar considering returning to Iraq to teach once the higher education system was fully restored? He had told them that he would be willing to relocate at the right time, even later that year if he could renegotiate his contract at Ann Arbor.

Khalid al-Awadi had been employed by a research unit affiliated with Baghdad University, with focus on petrochemicals. All such centers had discontinued operations after the Second Gulf War.

Aminah had studied at the University in Al-Basrah, majoring in science. Khalid had obtained his undergraduate degree in mechanical engineering there as well, and it was through Aminah that he had met his future wife Fatima, as she was also a student majoring in medicine at Al-Basrah. She had been accepted to study further at the College of Medicine at the University of Mosul, which was until the Second Gulf War judged to have one of the best programs in the Mideast. She had given up her plans to become a doctor after marrying Khalid.

Thursday morning, before going down to the restaurant, Omar reread the e-mail from Derek Stone. He went to look out at the Baghdad skyline for a minute, then picked up his room phone and called the hotel management.

"I’ve decided to change to another room, on the other side of the hotel," Omar said. It was owing to his suspicions, which he kept to himself, that his room was likely under some sort of electronic surveillance.

The hotel manager had no objections to Omar moving to a room on the fifth floor, saying, "You won’t have as nice a view, but it is on the other side of the building, if that’s what you want."

"Fifth floor is good, not so long an elevator ride up and down," Omar said. With the help of a porter he had everything moved, rather disordered for the time being in his new room, within half an hour.

NSA reports for that day indicate that several mid-level advisers familiar with the plan to foster the impression that Omar was a returning Islamic savior and who had been receiving reports about the audio that was being picked up from Omar’s first room in the Palestine Hotel, where two listening devices were operational, visited the physician in the NSA headquarters building complaining of stomach cramps, nausea, migraine headaches with visual disturbances, and diarrhea.

The decision was made by Lyeforth’s and Beltmann’s supervisor not to have Omar’s new room bugged.

Omar had decided that Thursday, July 17, 2003 was to be a day for surveying as much of central Baghdad as could be done from the taxi driven by Abdullah. Professor al-Awadi had invited Omar to stop by his home that day, and they had decided upon eleven-thirty a.m. But first, Omar wanted to see what had become of Baghdad Airport, to the west of the city, closed to all civilian aircraft since the war’s end.

Abdullah met him outside the hotel around 9:45 a.m., and they headed out along the Al-Qadisiyah Expressway, then along Matar Saddam al-Duwali Road.

There was a hilly area with old commercial buildings to the northeast of the airport, which was clearly marked with OFF LIMITS signs at its entrances. From this vantage point outside the perimeter, they could see much of the crater marked terminals and runways.

Omar got out, stood by the cab, and gazed at the military aircraft taking off and landing.

Abdullah said it was best not to stay too long watching from their perch out in the open, as it would draw the suspicions of U.S. soldiers and they would be questioned. "It happened to some friends of mine last week, and they were terrified they would be arrested and sent to prison. Everything is suspicious to the Americans now. And we could be robbed."

While standing by the taxi, they heard the roar of a small rocket being fired from half a mile away and could see something travelling into the air toward an incoming C130, from which flares were being fired to distract the rocket’s radar.

"Missed," Abdullah said. "Next time, it could be worse."

"A long time before the airlines fly here again," Omar said.

"We best leave now, as there will be patrols trying to find out who fired that." They headed back to the east on the Airport Road. Omar could see the grounds of the Presidential Palace North as they proceeded along. "This was not here when I left as a teenager," he said.

"There are enough rooms in the palaces for all the sick children of Iraq," Abdullah said.

"Yes. Then why haven’t the Americans arranged for them to have extended care in such sumptuous surroundings?" Omar asked.

They passed the Al-Jihad, Al-Ummal, and Al-Yarmuk districts and turned onto the Al-Qadisiyah Expressway.

"What is that?" Omar asked, pointing to a lavish facility to the left.

"Al Salam Palace."

They drove another mile and he asked pointing to the right, "That?"

"Al Sijood Presidential Palace," Abdullah said. Half a mile further, Abdullah said, pointing to the right, "That’s the Baath Party Headquarters."

"Looks deserted," Omar said.

"Stripped bare by looters."

They crossed the Tigris to the south on the Arbataash Tamuz Bridge and continued into the Az Zuwayyah district not far from Baghdad University, where the al-Awadi family lived in a fine two story residence in a neighborhood inhabited by academics and numerous professionals formerly employed at the Ministry of Transportation and Communications, headquartered not far away, and other agencies of the ousted Baathists.

They stopped. Abdullah sat in the car under the shade of a few palm trees. Omar got out and walked inside the courtyard area, up to the solid front door painted a deep indigo blue, and knocked.

Professor al-Awadi answered and invited Omar inside.

"Not as hot today as yesterday," al-Awadi said.

Khalid Mahmud was standing in the doorway to a study, and they invited Omar inside to talk a minute.

At dinner the previous night, Omar had told them of his plans to see as much of Baghdad as he could on Thursday and Friday, and then to go down to An-Nasiriyah to revisit his birthplace in the area of marshlands that survived.

"When you return to Baghdad next week, we would like you to dine with us," al-Awadi said.

"It would be our pleasure to have you, Omar Hammad," Khalid said.

Omar accepted, thanking them and then noticing the family photos on the bookshelves.

"Aminah and her husband," Professor al-Awadi said, handing a framed group portrait to Omar. Her husband’s name was Ahmad Habib al-Fatat, a scientist formerly with the government and now unemployed.

"Are these her sons?" Omar asked, pointing to two boys of grade school age seated on the parents’ knees in the picture.

"Yes," al-Awadi said. "Here they are in a more recent setting."

Omar looked fondly at the photo of Aminah and Ahmad seated, looking much older in their late thirties, and two young men in their late teens standing proudly behind them.

"What are their names?" Omar asked about the boys.

"Habib Rahman and Abul Saba. She is here in the house and would like a word with you."

Omar held his breath a moment and said, "Yes, I would most like to talk with Aminah again."

Al-Awadi led Omar into the main living room in the back of the house, with a courtyard garden outside with a dry fountain.

Aminah was still a very attractive slender woman with long and silky dark brown hair. She was wearing a conservative long-sleeve gold blouse with black check pattern, full white cotton slacks that looked almost like a long dress, sash, her head uncovered, red satin slippers.

She stood to greet Omar when he entered, and they all talked for a time about Omar’s long trip from America, the latest news about the Interim Governing Council, the shooting of another soldier that morning, and the growing scandal about Bush’s claim about uranium and Saddam’s plans to build nuclear weapons.

The conversation turned to her sons. "My husband and I were married early in nineteen eighty," she said.

At this point, al-Awadi and his son excused themselves to go to the kitchen to get Omar a cool drink. He was planning to leave just before noon as he had an appointment with a curator from the Iraqi National Museum early in the afternoon to talk about the looted treasures there.

"It’s all right for us to be alone in the same room," Aminah said. "My husband would understand. I want to show you the photographs of me and my sons again," she said. There was another recent framed picture of Habib and Abul on the family room mantelpiece.

"Habib was born before I was married," she said.

Omar looked at the tall handsome black-haired youth standing beside his brother, both in slacks and white shirts.

"He’s your son."

Omar looked her in the eye, closed his eyes just a moment, and said, "I would like to meet him."

"His father knew of this before he proposed to me. He treats Habib like his own son and is his legal father. The boys are good brothers to each other."

"Would Habib be willing to meet me?"

"Yes, I’m sure he would. We told him just a few years ago, when he turned eighteen, who his father is. He’s been very interested that you live in the United States and hopes you will like him all the more for being interested in ancient Iraq and Islam."

They were Shiia Muslims. Omar’s family had also been Shiia Muslims.

"Why did you not tell me this before?" he asked.

"We were afraid you would come back and be drafted into the Iraqi army and be killed. Ahmad Habib al-Fatat is a good provider."

"When could I meet Habib?"

"He could come by your hotel," she said.

"I’ll call him, if you wish. Does he know I’m in Baghdad?"

"Yes. Could you tell me what time, and where in the hotel to meet him? Then that will be arranged by his mother, and you can expect him to be prompt. He has waited for this quite some time."

Omar said he would be at the hotel again after five p.m. "No, four p.m. I’ll put off my other plans. I want to see him today. Will four-thirty p.m. be all right for him? In the main lobby?"

"I’m sure it will. He’ll come alone."

Professor al-Awadi and Khalid came back into the living room with a cool drink for Omar. They also offered one to Aminah, who said "no thanks".

"She told you," al-Awadi said.

"I wondered over the years if something like this had happened," Omar said. "I am so overjoyed to learn this I cannot express it."

After a few minutes talk about the prospects for normalcy at the university that fall, Omar excused himself, thanked his hosts for the occasion, and left in the taxi, with Abdullah looking rather hot and bothered at the wait.

"Back to the hotel, Abdullah," Omar said. "I’m sorry it’s so hot for you."

They drove back across the Arbataash Tumaz Bridge, on through Oman Square, passed the Al Rashid Hotel, and proceeded onward to the northeast, crossed over the Al Jumhuriyah Bridge, took a right onto Saadun Street, circled around in Firdos Square so Omar could get a better look at the 14^th of Ramaden Mosque, and he got out at his hotel.

"Back by two p.m.," Omar said.

"Two o’clock sharp," Abdullah said and drove off.

Omar went to his room to freshen up and then had a sandwich and soft drink in the café on the mezzanine level.

As he was getting up to return to his room, he saw Phillip Goransson, dressed in tan dress slacks and white pin-striped dress shirt, step into the café with a thirty-five year dark-haired British diplomat dressed in light grey slacks, light blue dress shirt, and tan walking shoes.

Goransson waved politely. He and his guest waited as Omar walked toward them to the cashier and stopped to talk.

"This is the man I was telling you about, Rodney," Goransson said. "Omar Hammad Aboudi, I would like to introduce you to Rodney Harold Hansen, with Britain’s Foreign Office."

The new acquaintances shook hands, exchanging greetings in Arabic.

"You speak excellent Arabic," Omar said to Hansen.

"How I wish I had his command of languages," Goransson said in English.

Hansen asked Omar in Arabic if he had been by the British legation Special Interests office, as they had many Iraqis inquiring there every day about emigrating to the U.K. if they could find a sponsor. "We have just a small diplomatic presence at this time."

"Once we open a full consular facility, you would see every sort of person lined up early in the morning," Hansen said, "hoping they will be among those we can approve for a temporary visa. It could overwhelm us."

"I can imagine so," Omar said.

"He wants you to send some of them our way," Goransson said, "to the U.S. legation office at the former embassy."

"Not quite," Hansen said. "Some of them are frantic, not believing the old regime is gone. We’ve asked several American and British nationals born in Iraq to stop by, try to explain, assuming you believe this to be the case, that Saddam and his henchmen are not returning to power, that the days of everyone spying on everyone else in Iraq are gone, and that there is a future for most, if not all Iraqi nationals."

"They’re desperate with the collapse of the economy and the whole society in shambles," Omar said. "What’s the address?"

"Here it is," Hansen said, handing Omar his card.

"Perhaps I can go by there tomorrow," Omar said. The three men parted.

Omar then returned to his room.

He got his digital camera, making sure the battery was good, and packed it in his totebag. The phone rang.

"Omar," Aminah said.

"Yes, speaking."

"Here’s Habib," she said.

Omar began to feel like he was afloat in a pool and had to steady himself.

Habib asked if his father Omar were well.

"Yes, quite well. And you?"

"I am fine."

They made an appointment to meet at five p.m. in Omar’s room. He gave Habib the room number and thanked him for agreeing to come visit.

By two p.m., Omar had a number of personal matters straightened out such as his credit card slips, itinerary, phone calls placed back home to the states, and he had to hurry down to the lobby and out into the parking lot not to keep Abdullah waiting, who was already parked at the main entrance, glaring at other taxi drivers who wanted his space.

"To the Zawra Park," Omar said.

"To the Zoo," Abdullah said, and they headed back across the Tigris and to the large zoo, or what remained of it since the war, near the Al-Rashid Hotel.

They looked for a sign if there were admissions being taken, but it looked rather deserted.

"Is it closed?" Omar asked.

"Like most places in Baghdad, it opens when they have electricity, if the looters have gone elsewhere for the moment," Abdullah said.

Omar asked Abdullah to walk with him a ways along one of the paths that led into the complex of exhibits and shelters for the depleted number of rare animals still showcased there.

They could see a few ostrich in a fenced area with a lone keeper pouring out some water for them.

Omar went over and called through the barrier, "Can we wander around? Is it permitted?"

The keeper, an older man with greyish white beard, balding on top, rather lean and dressed in a pair of overalls with zoo emblem on the sleeve, looked up from pouring out some grain for the Struthio camelus, native to Arabia, and said, "You’re the only person who’s asked me permission to do anything in months. We are open and have ten a.m. tours, and the zoo is open round the clock now, as there is no one in charge, I mean no one with authority, only the unpaid staff. The director has stayed on and almost lives in his office trying to find enough food to keep what animals we have left alive, and pleading with the police not to let looters carry off anymore of them to eat."

"There was a lion, a famous old lion who had been here for years and years. Did it survive?"

"No, he finally died. We think the shelling in April gave him a heart attack, the poor skinny old boy."

The two men strolled about, passing a penned area where oryx, ibex, gazelle, wild sheep, and antelope roamed about nibbling on dry grasses. Soon there were other visitors venturing out in the sweltering heat.

After half an hour, they returned to the taxi.

"Now where?" Abdullah said.

"The Iraq Museum."

It took them only ten minutes to get there. Omar had called ahead, and it was open.

Inside, with Abdullah following, Omar strode quietly through the ornate corridors with half-empty cases, hallways blocked, galleries marked OFF LIMITS with tape, piles of overturned cabinets still in a heap in one alcove.

He asked a receptionist where he could find the administrative offices.

There, on the second floor, he gave his name and said he was to meet the director of antiquities.

"I’ll try to find him," the young woman in a black light-weight cotton kaftan and raspberry-lavender colored scarf said. Only her face was visible.

It took several minutes of waiting before Mohammed ibn al-Salim came around a corner and into the hall. He greeted Omar warmly and apologized for being late.

"Not at all," Omar said. "You must have more work than any mortal could handle."

"Even with all the volunteer help who came flooding in after the war," al-Salim said.

Omar and al-Salim had met ten years earlier when the director had travelled to the U.S. to oversee an international exchange of items for an exhibit in Detroit. They had corresponded from then on, and it was al-Salim who had contacted Omar about visiting the Iraq Museum once he returned after the war.

He gave Omar and Abdullah a tour of some of the ransacked antiquities halls, some with nothing left but a few minor works sealed in glass cases, others with over fifty percent of the artifacts restored.

Omar cried in relief to see that several of the outstanding Persian and Sumerian relics that he had viewed in the building years earlier were still on their stands and pedestals. The vitrines on some were cracked, the glass chipped in one or more corners. They stepped out onto a portico with a view to the south and talked further.

They were high enough up to see many of the great domes of the mosques of the city, the geometric tours de force of arches, vaulting, ornaments, and plaster.

Omar asked how the museum had recovered so many items believed lost.

"Some of the looters were sent by unscrupulous art dealers and had photos of which items to take. But there were loyal Iraqis who also came and took home for safe-keeping many items that we feared were gone forever."

"I heard something of this on U.S. television," Omar said.

"People in the vicinity of this museum, and also near the Baghdad Museum," al-Salim said, "had been alerted by word of mouth that our national heritage was about to disappear forever, and the U.S. sent no troops to protect anything those weeks when everything was in turmoil. These saviors of many of our treasures also came in groups for their protection and in some cases snatched art from out of the hands of real looters who would threaten them, thinking they were all thieves, and it was bedlam in some of our galleries. People ran frantically out onto the streets and home with their bundles in what blankets or boxes they could find and stored them in hiding until we had protection. Many were afraid they would be arrested as looters, but we can usually tell who were honestly trying to salvage the art. We rarely ask questions when someone walks in and returns something."

Omar asked what were among the most valuable items still missing.

"Thousands are still gone from here, as you have heard," al-Salim said. He pointed out some empty niches and pedestals and handed Omar a report. "This lists most of what you requested."

Prominent among the missing art was a large gold urn with pectoral designs of Assyrian and Scythian mythology, a silver dish with enigmatic concentric circles of animals, also of Scythian origin, also some exquisite gold beakers dating from 1,000 B.C. and a large silver bowl decorated with a double row of horned animals in relief.

There were items that had been found in a Median temple from circa 750 to 600 B.C.

The list ran to over one hundred inventoried works that had been looted. There were small color photographs from the archives beside each.

"Where does one begin to look for any of these, if they are still in Iraq?" Omar asked.

"I have circled the ones I would most dearly love to see here again," al-Salim said.

"I will keep my eyes open."

There was just time to drive by the Baghdad Museum, and as there appeared to be a crowd milling about with a commotion caused by the presence of U.S. troops on a patrol with several tanks parked near the main entrance, Omar asked Abdullah to return to the Palestine Hotel.

He paid a five dollar tip plus the fare and then made arrangements to meet the next day at the same spot.

Back in his hotel room, Omar looked at himself in the mirror over the dresser by his bed and wondered how his son Habib would look. What would he say to a grown son whom he had not known of until that day? What would Habib need from his biological father?

A few minutes before five, there was a strong knock at the door. Omar opened it, invited Habib inside, and shut the door. They hugged each other warmly.

They talked about Habib’s health, where he was staying that summer, and his girlfriend.

Habib asked about Omar’s flight. Did he feel safe in Iraq? Did he plan on returning some day? He asked about Omar’s childhood.

"We were fishermen," Omar began.

"My grandfathers?" Habib asked.

"All of us. We all knew how to scrape debris away from the bottoms of our boats, to keep them fit for the rivers, and how to steer with one oar while standing, and the action of the tidal basin, how the Tigris could slow down and back up our streams. My father would squat on his feet wearing white pants and shirt and work for an hour just getting the boat cleaned up for the next day. I was born in a hut made of mud and sarifas. Most of our village was constructed using sarifas."

After asking about Omar’s health, and feeling assured they were both in sound physical condition, Habib mentioned the bombed out buildings all over Iraq. "Instant ruins," Habib said. "Ideal for attracting tourists."

The abandoned shelled craters of some civic buildings at the city center were being left to bandits and looters to use as headquarters. Squatters had taken over some of the deserted governmental structures in outlying districts of the capital, places that had been damaged in the bombings and liable to collapse on hapless children and elderly with no where else to stay.

Habib had heard of women and children who had gone missing. The reports were certain on this point and told of one part of the city where children were disappearing, believed abducted to be sold into slavery.

"It’s a rumor. They claim it’s just a rumor, on Iraq Free Radio," Habib said.

"Is it?" Omar asked.

Omar asked more about where his son lived.

"Near the National Theatre," he said, and gave the address. It was in a six-story circa 1975 apartment building on cantilevers in one of the professional precincts.

"What do you need most?"

"Water," Habib said. "We all need water and electricity most. The Americans think we need chickens, or cars, but first we need water. There is a well near where I live; it is believed by some to date to the days of the monarchy. It needs some work. The water was used by everyone. They think looters sabotaged the water wheel and chain."

"And your home? Do you live alone?"

"I live with two other students who are out of work and were taking graduate courses at the University. I was majoring in archeology. We have a small balcony over some acacia and palm trees, sweltering heat all day save the six or eight hours when the electricity is on, and we like to shoot off our mouths at the Americans whenever we can."

Omar laughed.

"One of my roommates, and I do not know which as they both appeared to be such friends to me that I do not like to believe I was betrayed, one of them was reporting about me to the Intelligence Service."

He had learnt from a colleague of his father al-Fatat that among the countless files discovered after the war were dossiers on the al-Fatat family including intimate details of how Habib lived, even what he watched on Iraqi television. "It had to be one or the other, either Salah or Mohammed. So I no longer confide anything in either of them."

"Including where you’re going," Omar said.

"Three times a week now. And I pray three times a day. We are Shiia."

"I also pray three times daily and am Shiia. Our tribe were of the Shiia, the Twelvers sect."

"I am associated with followers of Imam Sulman Abdul Ramiz. My roommates are also followers of Imam Ramiz. I pray at his mosque."

"I have seen him leading protest marches on American television."

"I speak with him once or twice a week. He knows you are in Baghdad. I told him, two weeks ago, when we learned from Professor al-Awadi that you were booked on a flight to Kuwait City."

"He has a large following."

"We are helpless now, father," Habib said. "The Iraqi people were tormented and lied to and spied on by the previous regime. But now we are all like helpless children, vulnerable and abandoned, and it continues to worsen. Many see no hope except in an Islamic republic modeled on that of Iran."

There was a framed photograph on one wall of Omar’s new hotel room, of a classic pure white Arabian stallion with its trainer in scarf and blue shirt holding his hand over its nose, petting it.

Omar looked at the image and asked what parts of the Middle East had his son visited over his twenty-three years.

"Every country save Israel and the Emirates. And Iran. I could not get a visa. I travelled with my father al-Fatat to Qatar and Jordan, with friends to Turkey just last year."

"You were one of the lucky ones," Omar said, "to travel so unrestricted."

"We were restricted and our itineraries checked by agents of the regime abroad, men with the foreign service," Habib said. "But at least we were allowed out of the country. When we returned, we had to talk with the Intelligence Services and tell them everything we had done, everyone we had spoken with."

Omar said to be "weary and on your guard at all times, as some of those men who are calling for an Islamic state are desperate and will also stoop to anything to accomplish their means."

Out the hotel room window they could see a small fire was burning across the Tigris river near the National Assembly building. Enough smoke to suggest slow smoldering flames from inside the structure.

"What could it be?" Omar asked.

"Would you like to run over there and see?" Habib asked. "I have mother’s car. Until I can find another. Father takes her everywhere, and so do I, as women cannot travel safely anywhere in Iraq now without a grown male relative."

"Let’s go."

Omar got his papers, keys, and on the way out the lobby bought two chilled bottles of drinking water to take along.

They were observed leaving by an Iraqi man who frequented the Palestine Hotel looking for people to take on guided tours. The man took out his satellite phone.

In the U.S. legation office in Baghdad, Hal Rosaria, who had arrived there earlier Friday, clicked the mouse to activate the speaker on his desk computer. Hansen with the British legation was sitting across his desk in a burgundy-stained leather arm chair, one of two in the room.

"Yes," Rosaria said.

"Aboudi is with his son," the tour guide in the Palestine Hotel lobby said.

"Thank you," Rosaria said. He then used his computer to call another number.

"Mr. Goransson’s office," a female secretary said.

"Rosaria here. Can I speak with Phil?"

"He’s out for an early dinner appointment. Can I put you through to his voice mail?"

"All right. Thanks." Rosaria then left a terse voice mail as to why he had not been told that Habib al-Fatat was going to pay a visit to his father from America. "Didn’t his roommate tell anyone of this? Or didn’t he know?"

Habib appeared to know every short cut across Baghdad and the Tigris. He drove Omar up near the National Assembly on the other bank of the river in less than five minutes.

A rocket-propelled grenade had hit a U.S. army vehicle, killing one soldier, wounding two Iraqi civilians, and starting a grass fire that had begun to consume a mechanical outbuilding attached to the main structure.

"This could be a disaster," Omar called out. "When did it start?"

"Just ten minutes ago," a white-haired man, clean-shaven, dressed in a galabiyya, said. "Didn’t you hear the blast?"

"I did," Habib said.

Omar got out his satellite phone and called one of the newspapers operating in Baghdad. He reached a reporter with the Iraq Press and described the fire.

A BBC film crew who had been covering a protest march near Oman Square was just then arriving at the National Assembly Building.

Omar went over to them with Habib. "Why do the Americans not bring something to put this out?" Omar said.

Would he agree to be filmed? the BBC reporter asked.

"Yes, but just for the moment."

Omar was filmed talking with the correspondent in English about why no sirens were sounding and why no fire fighting equipment had been brought in. "We have all this water a few feet away and our Parliament building could catch fire at any moment," he said. They talked a minute longer and then Omar and Habib stepped aside.

"This man," the reporter said into the camera, "is from America. He was born in Iraq and has returned to see what is left of the country he knew as a boy and a teen. He is astounded that the Americans can do so little, and what they do is so often too late. The crowd is beginning to grow agitated that there is still no sight of any Coalition unit called in to fight this growing blaze now dangerously close to igniting the east wing of the National Assembly."

"If only we had hoses and an old pumper," Omar told another man.

Several men in the crowd had been observing Omar and were talking on satellite phones.

"A bucket brigade would be better than nothing," Omar said to Habib.

"A what?"

Omar explained the American term.

"If the Americans do nothing, we’ll have to use our hands," Omar said.

He appeared on the verge of organizing a line of men to pass what few containers had been found nearby and that could be filled from the Tigris when a siren became audible and a fire unit from the 3^rd Infantry arrived.

A commanding officer set the soldiers to work and then walked over to the BBC cameraman and reporter. The reporter pointed to Omar, just ten feet away watching the blaze begin to subside.

"Did you call?" the officer asked Omar.

"I called a reporter I know with the Iraq Press," Omar said.

"He knew who to call at the U.S. command. You just about saved this place. We’re stretched thin, and no one had any idea this was on fire."

The growing crowd stared at Omar talking with the American officer. Several Iraqi men nearby were interpreting what they could hear Omar saying in English, and what the BBC reporter was telling the television audience.

The fire was soon under control. Omar and Habib headed back to the Palestine Hotel for an early dinner.

The main restaurant was half full at that hour.

"Herbed tomato she’reya soup, baked fish with sour cream and cheese, and tea," Omar told the waiter.

not tea."

After ordering, they began talking quietly about Habib’s plans for a career as an archeologist.

"It is much more to me than metal cups from one thousand B.C.," Habib began. "How I wish I could discover something like that, but to me it is the sense of searching for knowledge of how our ancestors lived, and why, and how their traditions shaped our world today."

"To bring the past alive," Omar said.

"Yes, so that when I see a sculpture of painted terra-cotta with a long Sumerian inscription," Habib said, "or boundary stones of an ancient palace, to me it is not the things, however beautiful and old, but the key to the past. These awaken for me a sense of why they built their capitals in this place or that, why they designed a monument with one man’s name, and not another. It’s a window to the past."

"A way to escape," Omar said.

"When I do not want to be where I am," Habib said, "I can look at one of those ivory plaques from Nimrud, or the wall paintings of Kar-Tukulti-Ninurta, and feel like I’m there."

"What do you think about the looting of treasures from the museums?" Omar asked.

"I blame the Americans."

Their dinner arrived soon and the talk covered the architecture of Sumer, the double ziggurats and double cellas, the temples at Assur, the naturalism of the Assyrian style, the palaces of Nimrud, Nineveh, and Khorsabad.

"’Polychrome narrative relief sculpture in stone is the principal expression of Assyrian art,’" quoted by Omar at the dinner, "from one of my favorite books on the subject."

On a trip to Samarra, Omar had once viewed the miles of frescos and relief sculpture in stone with their themes of battle, military dominance, and hunting.

"They all exalt some ruler or a warrior," he said. "I enjoyed them for their aesthetic value, the record of the past."

"Will Iraq escape from this chaos?" Habib asked.

"Iraq is unbroken," Omar said. "No one has noticed. Wait until chaos escapes from Iraq."

Habib nodded as if unsure of what he had heard.

Omar repeated what Professor al-Awadi had said about modern Iraq having been transformed into Sumer and that they were at the cradle of civilization for the next four and a half millennia.

"Yes," Habib said. "I have heard him speak like this. If so, the rest of the world is empty space."

"And Baghdad is a landscape of air," Omar said. "Air is the model for the worlds to come. The future will breathe new worlds, and fly in new worlds, and it is all cradled in this landscape. Everything I see in this city is air and can be blown away by the wind."

"Then I hope the American soldiers will soon blow out to sea," Habib said.

Omar laughed.

"They point their machine guns too quickly at us, for nothing," Habib said. "One of their foot soldiers pointed an MK-40 at me and mother last week when we were walking near our home, and a patrol was passing, and a boy in uniform acted like he heard a sudden noise from behind a walled courtyard as we were walking across the street from them, and he scared mother so I shouted at them to stop, and a lieutenant came over and shoved me."

Omar frowned. "This is awful. Did he hurt you?"

"No." Like his father, Habib was built like an Olympic wrestler and had a toughened face not used to showing pain. In fact, he often told family not to give him a watch, as he was hard on watches, flapping his powerful arms around when he was seated or standing and more than once smashing the crystal of his wristwatch. "But then what is time to me or to anyone in Iraq? This is the beginning of recorded time, if Professor al-Awadi is right, and we are where we are now, and will be at the place where we will be when we are there, and it is always now. I am now."

"Ready for desert," Omar asked.

"I am now," Habib said, and closed his eyes at the sound of his own voice.

They went back to Omar’s hotel room so that Habib could call Aminah and Ahmad to tell them that he was on his way home. Before leaving, Omar talked with his son about the next day.

Imam Ramiz had called for another protest march to begin at ten a.m. near the Unknown Soldier Monument. It was a response to the arrest of two junior clerics from the mosque who were accused of having made inflammatory statements calling for violence against the Americans to force them to withdraw from Iraq.

"We are sure they were misquoted. They opposed the U.S. occupation of Iraq, and like many believe it is for all our oil. But they do not incite Iraqis to kill soldiers or blow up humvees. They are in one of the worst prisons in Baghdad, and it is an outrage. They have no counsel, no one with the envoy’s office who will even say if they are in prison or dead."

"How long since they were taken by the Americans?" Omar asked.

"Two days ago. It all grew to a crisis yesterday when it was learned they have been put in a holding area with thieves and rapists. They are holy men, and it is an outrage."

"Do you believe it is true the conditions in which they are detained?" Omar asked. "And have they been charged with a crime?"

"I believe it is true, as there are other clerics who have been questioned and released since the war ended who have told of similar mistreatment by the Americans. And no, they have not been charged with anything, but that will not keep the military from leaving them for a year or more without letting them see the outside world."

"Will you be there at the march?" Omar asked.

"Yes."

"Would you like me to come with you?"

"Yes," Habib said.

"Then I could meet you there."

"I can pick you up here and we can drive," Habib said. "Otherwise, we could be separated in the crowd. We expect over a thousand."

"Then pick me up at nine-thirty."

"Ahmad al-Fatat will be with me. He wants to join us."

"I want to meet him. Thank you. I’ll be there," Omar said as they parted. "You must drive safely. The curfew begins in an hour."

"Good-night, father Aboudi."

"Good-night, son Habib."

The next day, Friday, July 18, 2003, began with sporadic electricity in the Palestine Hotel.

Omar was debating in his mind if he could have his visa revoked for participating in the protest march. If he called Goransson at the U.S. legation, would there be objections? Outright threats to have his passport pulled? He decided that there was no reason to think he would be arrested or questioned by the military or the Iraqi police, what was left of it, anymore than the other marchers. It was to be a peaceful demonstration, a few placards with simple statements criticizing the U.S. occupation.

He finished his preparations and a breakfast of fresh orange juice, tea, and kunaafa early, having called room service, and left for the parking area around 9:15 am. The tour guide who frequented the hotel was again lounging in a rather secluded alcove that afforded him a good view of the main lobby and corridors leading to the elevators and front. On seeing Omar walk by, he dialed a number on his satellite phone and began talking quietly.

Omar was surprised to see that Habib and Ahmad al-Fatat were already out front sitting in the car in a passenger loading area along the other side of the hotel driveway.

"Have you been waiting long?" he asked.

"No," Ahmad al-Fatat said, getting out.

Habib got out of the driver’s side and introduced his two fathers. The two older men hugged and looked each other in the eye.

Ahmad was dressed in off-white light-weight cotton dress slacks with cuffs, a light blue knit shirt, dark brown suede walking shoes, wearing a gold-plated watch, a gold chain around his neck, and clean-shaven except for a moustache. He was about forty-five years of age, not as tall as Omar, with a dark complexion with a few dark moles on his left cheek. He wore gold-colored wire rim glasses with transitional lenses that made it difficult in the bright morning light to see his dark brown eyes, which were focused intensely on Omar.

"We just got here," Habib said. He noticed there was a silence between his two fathers that he could not attribute for sure either to resentment or to mutual respect.

"We will reclaim Iraq," Habib said.

That triggered an impulse in both Omar and Ahmad. They began talking freely about the march and how many were expected. They got back in the car and crossed the Tigris at the Al-Jumhuriyah Bridge. Within ten minutes, after several traffic delays due to accidents and a light not working, they were at the site of the Unknown Soldier Monument.

There was already a crowd of men, the older ones in full-length tan and white galabiyyas with white shirts underneath, white turbans with black headbands, in spectacles through which they peered out sadly, or with curiosity and even disdain, or an ironic smile, at the American soldiers already lining up to monitor the demonstration.

Most were younger men, some in plain or striped galabiyyas, others in pants and long-sleeve shirts, a few junior clerics, Imam Ramiz in the midst of his followers giving instructions.

The Imam was a rather rotund man in his late thirties, goatee beard, black hair, wearing black rimmed glasses due to myopia, showing no indication of fatigue or worry in his face. He motioned to one aide about a hand-painted sign that read: WE REFUSE AMERICAN PROGRAM.

Another read: RELEASE CLERICS AT PRISON.

Omar, Habib, and Ahmad were standing to one side of the growing crowd of men, numbering close to four hundred, when a cleric who had been at Ramiz’s side worked his way through the protesters growing impatient at just standing and approached the two fathers and son.

"Saddoun Ibrahim al-Hashimi," Habib said.

"Habib Rahman al-Fatat," the cleric said. "Ahmad Habib al-Fatat, thank you for coming."

"This is Omar Hammad Aboudi," Habib said, making the introduction.

"We are all loyal to Iraq and to the law," al-Hashimi said. "We plan to move slowly, but without being intimidated by the Americans, the two miles to the prison. It will be an hour at least."

"We’re ready," Ahmad said.

"Imam Ramiz knows you are an Iraqi-American," al-Hashimi said, "and believes it will be a statement in itself if you will walk beside him with Habib and Ahmad al-Fatat."

"Then we must," Omar said.

They made their way to the front of the crowd, and Omar was introduced to the Imam.

"Thank you, Omar Aboudi," Imam Ramiz said. "We will join hands in prayer and then begin."

The prayer asked Allah to bless the two jailed clerics and to release them. "They were likely denounced by a liar who was most assuredly paid a fee by the Americans for giving false information," Imam Ramiz said. "They would not have called for violence to drive out the Americans."

The march began on schedule. The organizers had obtained a special permit from the U.S. envoy’s office.

Omar noticed that not far back in the line of marchers were Mamad al-Shawaf and Shabib Abu Mardam. He also recognized several of the students he had seen at Baghdad University on Wednesday at the library.

To Omar’s left stood his son, and to the son’s left was his adoptive father al-Fatat.

Their route would take them past the Zawra Park and Zoo to the Al Mansur district and on into the west part of Baghdad where the prison was located. Among several jails that had been commandeered by the Americans and operated since the fall of Baghdad, it was considered to have the worst conditions for prisoners and for the most part housed men believed to have been with the Feddayin or suicide squads. There were several of the fifty-five most wanted former Iraqi officials, as well as many men held for questioning about the attacks on U.S. soldiers. There were looters, thieves, and rapists. There were only two clerics, those from the mosque of Imam Ramiz. The foreign press corps had been denied access to interview the two men. Their families had been refused permission to see them. A legal counsel appointed by the envoy’s office refused to talk with the Imam or his representatives from the mosque. The two clerics were rumored to be refusing to eat or drink in protest. None of the other prisoners dared bother them, or so word had gotten out through others who knew of conditions in the prison.

Progress by the marchers was much slower than anticipated and it was close to noon before the mass, which had grown close to a thousand, reached the prison and stopped.

Military guards and several officers in three armored vehicles sped out to reinforce the troops who had already been stationed in the area in front of the gates and watchtowers.

The Iraqi men were all hot. The soldiers were smothering in full body armor, grimacing in the glaring sun overhead.

There were idle remarks made on both sides as they eyed each other wearily.

A military commander with two privates with machine-guns at his side and an interpreter stepped forward to confront the Imam.

"No further, sir," the officer said.

Back and forth the interpreter spoke. At times the Imam spoke in English, at other times, so the crowd could understand him, in Arabic through the interpreter.

"We come to demand the release of Saud Misr al Fahd and Ibrahim Nazira al-Sabah," Imam Ramiz said.

"I have no authority other than to keep you from proceeding any further toward the prison," the officer said. "Please ask your followers to keep their distance and abide by army regulations. This is a security area, and you will have to disperse."

"Who can I speak with in the prison authority?" Imam Ramiz asked.

"I cannot vouch for the prison officials. They’re with the U.S. army and are aware of your demands. I have been told."

"My clerics are innocent of the charges and are not to be tried on the scheming lies of invisible informants," Imam Ramiz said. "Can you escort me alone into the prison? I would like to talk with the two men."

"I’ll have to phone inside and ask," the officer said. He and his guards withdrew a hundred feet closer to the prison, and he began making calls on his satellite phone.

Habib and many of the younger men were beginning to grow impatient and murmuring that they should move closer to the prison, with remarks such as, "This is our country, our prison, our property, our countrymen inside."

There were shouts in Arabic of "We demand the U.S. troops leave Iraq without delay." "We have been lied to by the Americans." "Get back to your own country." "You are not wanted here."

The officer and three guards approached the front of the crowd again. The officer appeared to take notice of Omar and the men close to the Imam this time and asked, "Who are these? I need to know their names."

"Why?" Imam Ramiz asked.

"You would be allowed to come inside with two aides," the officer said. "If you agree to meet with the prisoners for only five minutes. They are not being abused or mistreated. The days of Saddam are gone."

"You do not need to know their names," Imam Ramiz said. "I need to talk amongst them first."

The American officer and a private walked closer to Omar, Habib, and Ahmad. He asked Omar through the interpreter for his documents.

"I’m a peaceful marcher," Omar said in English that surprised the soldiers. "What have I done wrong?"

"I simply need to see your identification, sir," the officer said. "I have the right to ask under the protocol set up by the Special Envoy and the Governing Council."

"This doesn’t sound right," Omar said.

"You speak good English, sir," the officer said. "Have you lived in the United States."

"You don’t have to answer him, father," Habib said in Arabic.

The interpreter repeated for the officer what Habib had said.

"Tell him his father does have the right to refuse. But he could be detained if he does so," the officer said.

"Get out of our country and stop threatening us," Habib said.

A private began to lower his rifle toward Habib.

"Please, sir," the officer said. "Your papers."

"I have only my passport with me," Omar said. "Here."

The officer opened it quickly, blinked at seeing the photo and name, and returned it. His manner suddenly changed. "Thank you, sir. If you could help disperse the crowd, it would help."

"I am their guest," Omar said, "and have no intention of interfering. I am with them as long as any other."

One of the army guards had been sneering rather at Habib, who was glaring back at the young private, whose pale American face was growing red in the heat.

Habib motioned with his left arm to the private to lower his rifle. "Don’t point that at me," he said in English.

The officer motioned for the private to lower his weapon. He stepped to the other side of the Imam and asked for someone else’s I.D.

The private spat on the ground while looking at Habib. In turn, Habib stepped forward from in front of his two fathers and, with his arms stiff at his sides, shouted at the private, "How long have you been a guest in our country?"

The private said nothing.

"Answer me," Habib said.

Omar and Ahmad reached forward to grab Habib by his arms and tried to pull him back toward the front line. "No, don’t risk it," Ahmad said.

Habib stepped back.

The private glared at Omar.

"Don’t look at him like that," Habib said.

The entire time the hundreds of other men in the crowd were talking amongst themselves about everything to the right and left, the guard towers, the clerics, the heat.

"Don’t step out of line again, sir," the private said to Habib in English, with the interpreter following.

"You’re provoking him," Omar said in English to the private.

Habib stepped forward again.

This time the private walked over to Habib and tried to shove him back into the line.

"Stop it," Ahmad said. "Leave him alone."

"You’re trying to provoke us," Omar said.

The officer came back over and tried to resolve the scuffle.

"Enough!" He turned to the Imam and said, "There’s been an unexpected turn of events according to the prison director."

"What turn?" Ramiz asked.

"The informant whose reports led to the arrest of the two clerics has disappeared," the officer said.

"Disappeared? Who was it?" Imam Ramiz asked.

"I don’t know. Another man who worked with the missing informant has met with the prosecutors and told them that they both were fabricating stories for the rewards. It appears your clerics could be released within the hour."

As the interpreter repeated the officer’s remarks, and the news quickly spread through the crowd with an upswell of excitement, shouts of victory began to erupt.

"Within the hour?" Imam Ramiz asked.

"Sooner, perhaps," the officer said.

"Then we will wait," the Imam said.

"You can wait."

Habib and his fathers embraced each other and the men standing around. "Is it genuine?" Ahmad asked.

"We’ll know very soon," Omar said.

Growing hungry and thirsty, the crowd began to drift away, with at least six hundred still in front of the prison on the street blocking most of the traffic half an hour later.

Cheers began to rise up as the Iraqi men could see the two clerics in their religious garb being escorted out the front gates by eight soldiers and guards.

"This is the first time the Americans have done anything we asked other than give us handouts," Imam Ramiz said. "This is unprecedented."

The released clerics were embraced like heroes by the crowd. They spoke with Imam Ramiz and were introduced by Habib to Omar, whom he spoke of as his father from America.

"Life up my spirit, oh Allah," the released men said.

Imam Ramiz echoed their words and within a matter of seconds most of the men in the crowd were chatting, looking toward the heavens, and then toward Mecca, "Lift up my spirit, oh Allah."

They could hear voices from the distance in the neighborhood calling out the same words.

Al-Faud and al-Sabah looked at Omar and said, "This has to do with you."

Omar looked puzzled.

"With him?" Habib said.

"The officer, Captain Geiger, gave your name to the commandant while we were being processed for release," al-Faud said.

"We heard him say there is an Iraqi-American professor in the crowd, and that it would create another international incident if you were hurt," al-Sabah said.

The crowd continued to disperse. Several television news crews had been filming the confrontation between Muslims and military. Their correspondents had turned their cameras toward where Omar stood throughout much of the preceding hour.

Cars were coming for many of the protesters. Taxis were taking others away as well.

Eric Westervelt with NPR had followed most of the march by foot. He looked red-faced and a bit dehydrated as he stepped over to Omar, Habib, and Ahmad and asked if they would answer some questions.

They gave their names. Westervelt was particularly intrigued that Omar had been living in the U.S. and had dual citizenship.

"Is this what it will take to bring order out of chaos in Iraq?" Westervelt asked Omar, a microphone in his hand and two soundmen at his side. "Someone like you, who knows both sides of the equation, a sort of ombudsman to deal with the unfolding misery that is Baghdad?"

"I only knew that the reports were definite that al-Fahd and al-Sabah were innocent," Omar said, "and had been placed in with hoodlums and bad men who could hurt them."

"Have your American friends any idea what conditions are really like in Baghdad?" Westervelt said.

"They have only a faint notion of what it is like here," Omar said. "Remember the headline on Time magazine just last week?"

"I do," Westervelt said.

"’Peace is hell’."

"Do you feel this incident will help cool down both sides, that the American authorities backed down and granted the protesters’ demands?" Westervelt asked.

"We could use more days like this," Omar said.

They thanked each other, and the correspondent added his closing note in what would become a broadcast to NPR headquarters to be replayed later that day. "This crowd feels elated that their struggle to confront the often shadowy Coalition bureaucracy brought positive results for them – in this case at least. Another hot day in Iraq, and another potentially explosive situation, as the U.S. prefers to call them, defused, or at least, postponed. Eric Westervelt, Baghdad."

Omar asked Habib and Ahmad if they could find a driver to take them to a nearby restaurant.

On parting, Imam Ramiz called out to Omar, "Thank you, my friend. You have more influence than you know."

"How is that possible?" Omar said to Habib and Ahmad as they hailed a cab.

"Because you are Iraqi and American. You can do anything you want," Habib said.

They had lunch at a café just minutes away, back toward the central city, starting with hors d’oeuvres, then large entrees of makaroona, mixed salad, and soft drinks, as their appetites had not been satisfied since around nine a.m.

Then they took another taxicab back to the hotel. Omar had informed them earlier that he needed to travel to An-Nasiriyah that evening with the hope of visiting his old village on Saturday. He was already late in heading to the south. Abdullah was to meet him around three p.m. and it was nearing two-thirty already.

"I have to pack and check out," Omar said.

Habib offered to help and Ahmad said he would watch for Abdullah in the parking area. Omar gave a description of his driver and his car and with Habib’s help managed a hasty completion of his packing, after a quick shower during which he called out to Habib that at least the water was on. The electricity had been on and off since before they left the hotel. It was on at the time.

Omar dressed in fresh clothes, called a porter, and went down the elevator with Habib carrying some of his things. Omar had bought several necessities and a small painting by a street artist of the old lion at the Baghdad Zoo during his three days in the city and had an extra box packed with Iraqi merchandise that he was sure he would need.

"I’ll be back next week," Omar said. "What are your plans?" he asked Habib.

"I should be in the city the next couple of weeks. There will be more marches."

"I will watch out for him, and so will Allah," Ahmad said. "And so will you, I am sure."

They hugged and kissed, and Omar departed in Abdullah’s taxi around four p.m.

They were unsure when the curfew would begin in the provinces outside the city. It had been rumored, and the hotel could only loosely confirm this, that the main road to the south which ran through Hillah, Ad-Diwaniyah, and As-Samawah was closed after seven p.m. to all but military and government traffic.
Once they crossed the Al-Dawrah Bridge and navigated a few city streets they would be on the open highway headed out of Baghdad and into the countryside.

Just as the taxi had pulled out of sight of the hotel complex, Omar tapped Abdullah on the shoulder and said to turn northeast. "I want to see Saddam City."

"It is no longer called that," Abdullah said. "We will be late. It is a three hour drive to An-Nasiriyah, if there are no roadblocks. We could be stopped by a patrol if we are out after the curfew."

"I will see to it that we stop where it is necessary, if we are told we cannot travel further for the night. We can find an inn. I know of one in Hillah."

"I’ll take you where you want to go, Omar Hammad Aboudi," Abdullah said.

David Lawrence Cade Copyright 2003 by

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