Abdul eyed the plate before his shifty eyes returned to my face, trying to gauge if I was a big enough idiot to buy this. I informed him, "Mr. Almiri… there are two insurmountable problems. One, we found the artillery shells on the ground floor. Two, that isn't what Ali bin Pacha informed us about you during the ride to the hospital."

"But that is not the truth. I… I do not know why that man would make lies about Abdul."

"He told us you're a maestro at manufacturing bombs from artillery shells."

"I do not know this man."

"He knew you."

"Abdul does not know how to do these things, this… this making of bombs. I am swearing to you this."

Bian understood where I was going with this, and said to me, "The tools we found at the factory are being checked for fingerprints. The results will arrive any minute. I'll take his prints, and if they match, he's mine."

Coming from a third world background, Abdul had not anticipated this twist, and his face registered what an unhappy surprise this was. Where he came from, forensic science entails cops bouncing your nuts off the floor until you squeal.

I gave Bian a pissed-off look. "Hey… maybe that's how you Mossad people handle these things. The CIA likes to keep them alive… at least, long enough to talk. You can't just keep executing them."

She affected a bored posture. "The other ones never bothered you."

"They were different. He might have something valuable to tell us."

"Him? Look at him. A stupid mensch. Catch a minnow, and what do you do? I'm tired, and I need a nap. Let's get this over with."

"Well… at least give the guy a chance to prove you wrong. Maybe he knows something, maybe not. It's a pain in the ass to dispose of bodies."

"Oh, spare me. Stash him with the other corpses in the city dump. They'll blame it on the terrorists. They always do."

Abdul did not seem to enjoy the way this conversation was progressing, and he decided to join in. "Jordan," he informed us, "Amman, Jordan. Abdul comes from this city."

"How long has Abdul… have you been here, in Iraq?" I asked, imitating his third-person usage.

"One year. Perhaps a little more, sir."

"Before that?" Bian demanded.

"I was…" He hesitated in midsentence and looked at me. "Sir, please… I… if I tell you these things… I- These people, they will hunt down Abdul. The things they do to traitors, you cannot imagine."

Bian said, "There, you see. Now, will you please give him to me?"

"No, wait…" I paused, then asked Abdul, "Have you ever heard of the witness protection program?"

"Ah… yes, I believe I have seen about this subject in Hollywood movies."

"Same thing. We build you a fake identity and relocate you. Give you a whole new life. You'd probably prefer someplace warm. Am I right? Southern California, maybe Florida. Babes, beaches, and mosques." I gave him a reassuring smile. "Buy you a nice big house on the shore, give you a million bucks, with a fat monthly payment for expenses. What's not to like?"

Abdul showed some enthusiasm and interest in this subject and asked a few questions, which I answered, though possibly I exaggerated a few details. Finally, I assured him, "The Mafia mooks love this program. They swear that if they knew about this, they never would've been crooks, just hidden witnesses. Have you ever been to America, Abdul?"

"I have… yes. For one year. As a high school student. Michigan… but Abdul was not liking this place very much. Very cold, sir."

"Got it. Someplace warm. Now listen closely, because I only offer this deal once. Tell us the complete truth, that's rule one. No lies, no fibs, no exaggerations. Rule two, answer everything. Understand? We'll check everything you tell us, and later, we'll probably hook you up to a lie detector. No lies, Abdul."

"Then you are telling me I am in this program?"

I smiled at Mr. Abdul Almiri. "You have the word of the CIA."

He smiled back.

Bian allowed Abdul a brief moment to bask in his good fortune, then asked, "Where were you before Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. I was living at a camp. Teaching."

Bian looked at me. We both understood what this meant.

"Teaching what?" I asked.

"You must understand, sir, that I was… I was a simple teacher."

"I do understand." And I did.

"So I was-"

"What? What were you teaching, Abdul?"

"I was, uh… telling these students how to make… bombs."

"You're an engineer?"

"No… well, for two years in university I was studying this subject. In Jordan. But I was making the big mistake of hanging around with some wrong people. Crazy fundamentalists." He looked fearfully at Bian, the bloodthirsty Mossad killer, and explained, "I myself am not very devout, you must understand. Nor do I have great hatred toward Israel. But the Jordanian police accused me… What is this American expression?… " He paused, then asked, "Guilty by incorporation. Yes?"

Close enough, and I nodded. He continued, "And so, because of this… I was made to leave my university."

Bian asked, "So you joined Al Qaeda?"

"I was… very angry, you must understand. And-"

"And you joined Al Qaeda?"

"And I was… confused. You see, my family wanted-"

I snapped, "Yes or no."

"Yes."

So we went on awhile, and after additional questions we learned how Abdul's talents as a bomb maker were recognized, a little about his job teaching others to shred people into confetti, how he fled after his camp was overrun by the northern Afghan tribes, made his way to Iraq, linked up with some former Al Qaeda compatriots, and opened up shop here.

It was interesting, and at the same time disappointing, trivial, and also dispiriting. What converted this guy into a terrorist was nothing dramatic, no galvanizing grievance, no pulsing psychic need, certainly not the grind of poverty or any particular social injustice. He was an unpopular, slightly brainy kid from a middle-class background, befriended some religious zealots, this led to trouble with the authorities, and the next thing Abdul knew, he was manufacturing explosive devices for an association called Al Qaeda.

I detected undercurrents of self-loathing, mixed with social alienation, boredom, and a bit of an identity crisis. But in fact, his reasoning and his path to terrorism sounded no different from and was no more mysterious than a confused American kid who, out of peer pressure, the need to belong, and because it seems cool, becomes a druggie. But there was a difference, a big one: Abdul didn't blow his own mind, he blew up people. I asked, "How long have you known Ali bin Pacha?"

"Ah, well, I am not… not so long, sir. He was not in Afghanistan. Not of Al Qaeda. Also, his duties to the movement cause him to… to very often leave Iraq. He must go to meet the people who give us the money."

I repeated my question.

"Maybe… I think maybe two or three months. Please, you must understand, sir, we all move about. Even in Falluja, there are people… people such as yourselves who… who hunt us…"

He had no clue that the hunt to end all hunts was under way in Falluja, nor did I see any advantage from informing him.

Bian ordered, "Tell us about him."

He paused to think for a moment. Again he looked at me and said, "Ali bin Pacha is a tough, very fanatical man. You have looked at him in his eyes, yes? He is… I would not want Ali to think of me as his enemy. He has no fear… no remorse. This is proper saying, yes?"

"Is he married? Does he have children?" Bian asked.

"This I would not know about. We are not supposed to share these things. Some men do. Ali does not."

"How did he lose his leg?"

"I believe in Mogadishu, ten years before. One of your big helicopters fired a missile. Ali now has great hatred to America."

As I mentioned, I also served in Mogadishu, and it was interesting to learn that bin Pacha and I were there together. I recalled intelligence reports at the time describing Arab fighters-including one asshole named Osama bin Laden-who were supporting, advising, and in some cases, fighting alongside Mohammed Aideed, the Somali warlord who had helped manufacture the famine that killed millions of his own people, and who by then had turned his attention to killing our peacekeepers-and me.