Two things eventually changed his mind. The first was a holiday visit to see his sister Johara. Johara and her husband had just had a baby boy—their third—and holding the infant in his arms awakened Samir’s paternal longing. Johara’s husband, seeing his expression, said, “You really should marry, Samir. You could be a daddy too.”

The other factor was Mustafa’s announcement that he was going to marry Noor. This was a crazy decision, as even Mustafa seemed to recognize, and it was even crazier that Samir would allow it to influence his own behavior. But the night he heard the news, Samir had a dream in which he was being questioned before a grand jury. His inquisitor, who bore a resemblance to his old grade school nemesis Idris Abd al Qahhar, wanted to know why he was still single. “Your best friend has two wives,” the inquisitor said, “while you have none. What is the meaning of this riddle? What defect are you hiding?” Samir looked over at the section of the seating area reserved for upcoming witnesses and saw Asriyah, her eyes full of secret knowledge. He woke up gasping.

The next day he ran into Najat in the elevator and asked her if she was still thinking about getting married.

A week before Samir and Najat’s wedding day, Halal raided the home of a bookkeeper in Adhamiyah. The bookkeeper, who unwisely decided to test his quick-draw skills against the agents who broke down his door, did not survive, but they managed to get his laptop computer intact.

Back at headquarters, it took Isaac all of half an hour to guess the laptop’s password—the bookkeeper’s father’s name, followed by the bookkeeper’s mother’s name, followed by the bookkeeper’s own birth date, backwards—and another hour to go through the files. By then most of the other agents had gone out for a post-raid dinner; only Samir, who’d gotten hung up booking some other seized items into evidence, was still around.

“What’s wrong?” Samir said, seeing Isaac’s expression as he came out of his office. “Don’t tell me the encryption defeated you.”

“No, I got in,” Isaac said. “I found a list of payoffs to Baghdad PD officers—including that patrolman you suspect in the Ghazi al Tikriti murder.”

“Well, that’s great, man! Why the long face?”

Isaac pulled up a chair beside Samir’s desk. “I found another file as well,” he said. “Payoffs to federal agents. Including Halal.”

“Ah,” Samir said, feeling the same nervous flutter he always did when the subject of corruption came up. Though he’d never taken a bribe, like every Halal agent he’d committed other infractions—sampling the wares of the bootleggers they arrested, now and then taking a bottle home with him, or when they found cash, letting a few bills stick to his palms on the way down to evidence. In fact at this very moment he was sitting on five hundred riyals that had, until a few hours ago, been in the dead bookkeeper’s wall safe. A little wedding bonus. “So who’s on the list?” he asked Isaac. “Anyone I know?”

“No one on our team, thank God,” Isaac said. “But you know Habib Murad?”

“Yeah, sure.” Habib worked upstairs, in the department that handled confidential informants. Samir actually knew him quite well—and not just from work.

Isaac ran a hand through his hair. “I fucking hate this. You know I’m a team player, right? And it’s not like my own hands are spotless. With small stuff, I’m happy to look the other way. But if a guy in the CI’s office is taking Saddam’s money, he could be getting people killed. I can’t look away from murder.”

“No,” Samir said. “Of course not.”

“Right, of course not.” Isaac laughed, then sighed. “All right,” he said, standing up, “let me go report this before I lose my nerve.”

Samir watched him walk out. Then he got up himself, and went to find a pay phone.

The following evening Samir stopped on his way home to drop off a check at the hall where the wedding reception was due to be held. As he was getting back into his car, Habib Murad drove up alongside him and gestured for him to follow.

They drove to a nearby parking garage. Habib went all the way to the top level, which was deserted at that hour. By the time he turned off his engine and opened his door, Samir was already coming around the car. He dragged Habib out by the collar and began pummeling him.

“Hey!” Habib shouted, putting his arms up to block the blows. “Knock it off! I just want to talk! Hey! Hey!”

Samir shoved him back and drew his pistol. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he demanded. “All of Halal is looking for you.”

“I know, I got your message . . .” Eyeing the gun warily: “It’s not just Halal. Saddam knows you have the bookkeeper’s list and he’s cleaning house. Anybody on there who’s not already in custody is due to have a bad accident. They’d have got me already if not for your warning.”

“Why are you here, Habib?”

“To thank you for saving my ass.”

“To thank me! You think I did it for you?”

“No, I can see that was too much to hope for,” Habib said, with a trace of bitterness. “But if you did it to protect yourself, you’re a fool. Go ahead, threaten me, but it’s true! What were you afraid I was going to do, out you as a faggot to the DA as part of some deal? How paranoid do you have to be to think they’d even care about that?”

Samir shrugged. “Who knows what you might try, if you get desperate enough? A guy who’d throw in with Saddam—”

“Yeah, and if I wanted to screw you over, that’s who I’d betray you to. Halal would kick you out for being gay. Big deal. But Saddam? If he knew? He’d put you to work, just like he put me to work. Yeah, that’s right, smart guy,” Habib said nodding. “That’s why I did it.”

Samir took a step back. “When?” he said.

“A few months ago. Right after you broke up with me, as a matter of fact.” He looked away. “I went home with the wrong guy. They got pictures. They said they’d tell my parents if I didn’t play along.”

“But the bookkeeper’s list . . . They’re paying you!”

“Of course they’re paying me. They pay everybody—and once you take the money, they’ve got that to hold over your head, too. I tell you what, I’m actually glad this happened. I’d been thinking of running anyway. Of course I’d hoped to have a bit more cash saved up before I did it.”

“So that’s why you’ve come to me? You want money?”

“No,” Habib said, and once again there was bitterness in his voice. Then, saying, “Don’t shoot me,” he reached into his jacket for a blue envelope marked POSEIDON LINES. Inside the envelope were two ferry tickets from Haifa to Piraeus; the departure date was three days from now.

“What is this?” Samir said.

“An invitation.”

“A—”

“I still like you, Samir,” Habib said. “I know it’s a long shot, but it’d be nice to run away with someone I like, and I thought, maybe you didn’t warn me just for your own sake . . .”

“Are you insane?” said Samir. “Did you really think for one second that I would throw away my whole life, to—”

“We could have a life in Greece. A better one, in some ways. You still have to be discreet, but they won’t hound you like here. I’ve heard the same is true of Paris, but I like the water . . .”

“Well I don’t.” Samir threw the tickets back at him. Habib caught one, but let the other fall to the ground. “You go to Greece, or Paris, or wherever the hell else you want that’s not here,” Samir said. “I’m staying in Baghdad and getting married.”

“Yes, I know, you’ve told me,” Habib said. “You’ll have a wife, and children you adore, and you’ll live happily ever after. The part about the children I almost believe. But the wife? The happiness? That I don’t think will last.”

“It’ll last longer than you will if you don’t get the fuck out of here.”

“OK, OK, I’ll go,” said Habib. “But if you change your mind before Saturday, I’ll see you on the boat.”

He got in his car and a minute later he was gone. Samir put away his pistol and remained standing in the empty garage, looking down at the ticket on the ground at his feet.