Speaking of fertilizer, what really got my attention was the smell. The city's sewage system obviously wasn't back up to speed, and this was a windy fall day. I couldn't imagine the effect on a breezeless summer afternoon. Were I in charge of this occupation I would worry about people's innate tendency toward mental association; the Americans are here and it smells like shit.

Also there was a fair amount of pedestrian and street traffic, small trucks laden with goods and vegetables, and various models of Japanese and European cars, most of which looked old, though it's difficult to judge in a part of the world where sun and sand prematurely age paint jobs, and people. We began slowing down and after a few moments, I asked Smith, "Where are you taking me?"

He pointed his finger toward a home at the end of the street, a narrow, one-level house, squat in shape, tan or dirty white in color, constructed of concrete and stucco, with bars on the windows, an orange-tiled roof, and an oversize satellite dish, like a big wart sticking off the side. In the States this would be called a Mediterranean ranch, as would the surrounding homes, which were identical in size and architectural style. The Achmeds had no trouble keeping up with the Bashirs on this block. Usually this is a source of domestic harmony, though apparently not. He explained, "It's a safe house."

A moment later he pulled up to a two-car garage whose double door had been conveniently left open. I deduced from this that our arrival was expected. A squat, ugly, lime green 1980ish Peugeot with Iraqi plates was parked to the right.

I knew that few Iraqi homes have attached garages at all, and a two-car is a very rare indulgence; probably this feature weighed heavily when this house was chosen. Regardless, a military humvee is monstrously wide, and it took Smith a few careful attempts to maneuver it inside the garage without peeling the side off the Peugeot. He parked, turned off the engine, and said, "Get out."

I did, while he bolted behind the car and quickly pulled shut the garage door. He next walked to the Peugeot, opened the rear door, withdrew an armful of clothing, and began separating them.

He withdrew a black chador-a veil-and an abaya-a long, baggy woman's black robe-and tossed them at me.

Without further ado, Smith began stripping off his American Army uniform and then slipped into black jeans, dark sweatshirt, and worn Adidas sneakers. With his jet-black hair and dusky complexion, as he was now dressed, he passed for an Arab. I held up the dress and examined it more closely.

He noted, "For one thing it covers your all-American good looks. For another… You speak Arabic?"

I shook my head.

"Well, there you have it. Nobody talks to women 'round here less they're hitched."

Obviously these people had thought this thing through. Carl Smith struck me as competent, meticulous, and well attuned to the local culture; how I struck him was another story.

I pulled the abaya over my head and tried to figure out how to put on the chador. Eventually, Smith grew impatient with my fumbling and reached over, saying, "Like this." He made a few deft adjustments and then tapped my shoulder. "Remember how to do that."

While he placed my duffel and legal briefcase in the car trunk, I regarded myself in the Peugeot's side mirror. Smith could pass for a native, as I said; the problem was me, and even the veil didn't fully hide my whitebread looks. But at least an observer would have to be close to pick up on my blue eyes and untrimmed eyebrows, and if they got that close, probably the jig was up anyway.

He slipped an earphone into his ear, from which extruded a mouthpiece, and spent a moment adjusting a few knobs. He said into the microphone, "Smith here. Ready to roll." I had not a clue whom he was speaking with, though the lack of verbal foreplay suggested the call was expected, and further, that we were under the eye of somebody. He listened for a moment, "Uh-huh… okay. Yeah, I'll avoid it."

I said, "Avoid what?"

"None of your business."

"If you want your fifty thousand bucks, make it my business."

He studied my face. "You're not gonna be trouble, are you?"

"Avoid what?"

His stare turned cold. "A suicide bomber nailed a bunch of people on our planned route. The Army's got roadblocks up. We don't wanna git caught up in it."

"Right." This wasn't my first clue that Iraq sucks, but it was a potent one.

He continued to stare at me. "From here on, we're operational. Understand? The slightest dick-up, the tiniest mistake… and we're dead."

"No problem." I walked around the Peugeot, opened the passenger-side door, and started to get in.

He looked at me, and said, "Hey, pal… Arab women don't never ride in the front."

"Right." I climbed into the backseat, he opened the garage door, slid into the driver's seat, and we quickly backed out into the mean streets of Baghdad.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Complete darkness.

We drove north through more suburban streets and ended up traveling west, on Highway 10, which connects Baghdad with Falluja.

The earpiece remained in Smith's ear, and occasionally he conversed with his compatriots, brief little conversations, all business. There appeared to be a car ahead of us, running interference, and another to our rear, securing our tail.

This reinforced my impression that these people had their act together. Somebody better-I didn't.

Athough Falluja is a mere thirty miles from Baghdad, the traffic was fairly dense, principally due to more slow-moving American military convoys that completely clogged up the highway. Smith informed me at one point, "Lots of military traffic tonight. Weird. Most Iraqis and even the Army like to be home when the lights go out. The goblins come out."

A few moments later he pointed to our right and said, "Abu Ghraib prison. Over there… See it?"

I looked and saw nothing except a few lights from industrial buildings. Maybe I would come back during daylight when I could view Iraq's most famous landmark in all its splendor. Maybe not.

After we departed Baghdad proper, I noted, the towns and cities looked poorer, run-down, virtual slums. And according to the CIA guide, we were traveling through the more prosperous, better-developed part of Iraq-the Sunni Triangle-where Saddam threw money and favors at his Sunni coreligionists and Tikriti tribesmen. Where the Shiites live, in the towns and cities of the south, must really suck.

I checked my watch: nearly nine. "When does this thing go down?"

I observed him observing me in the rearview. "Thought you knew that."

Not wanting to reveal how grab-ass this was, I replied, "Update me."

"Tonight."

Tonight? "I… I meant what time tonight?"

"Usually best to go in about two in the morning."

I thought I knew, but asked, "Why?"

"'Cause by then most of the jihadis are asleep. They're pretty halfassed that way. That gives us an hour to get in, an hour for the snatch, an hour to get out. Maybe thirty minutes of wiggle room in case the shit hits the fan. Understand?"

"What happens if it takes longer?"

"If we're still there by five, best to lay over till tomorrow night. The hajis set up checkpoints, looking for American spies." He added, "Don't worry. We got safe houses inside Falluja."

After a moment, he informed me, "The target could move anytime. Some of these people, they don't never sleep in the same place twice." He looked me in the eye through the rearview mirror. "We expected you fifteen hours ago. That was your prep time. You okay with that?"

"Do I have a choice?" I suggested, "Maybe he moved yesterday."

"Maybe."

"I was sort of hoping he had an attack of conscience and turned himself in while I was en route."