“Welcome to my home!” Saddam said. As he reached out to shake, his sleeve pulled back to reveal an old gang tattoo on the back of his wrist. His grip was strong and he squeezed Mustafa’s hand to the point where it almost became painful, sizing him up as he did so. Mustafa, still too giddy to feel fear, did his own counter-assessment and decided that the way to play this was to be respectful but straightforward.

“Mustafa al Baghdadi,” Mustafa said. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“It’s my pleasure to be of service. I trust I need no introduction, but in answer to your next question, you should feel free to refer to me as either Saddam, or Uncle. Many of my union brothers prefer the latter.”

“ ‘Uncle’ would be awkward for me, I’m afraid. I’m not a member of Baath.”

“But you are an Iraqi,” Saddam said. “I consider all Iraqis honorary Baathists.”

“Yes, well,” said Mustafa, “as I suspect you’ve already been told, I’m also a former Halal agent who spent nine years trying to bust you. So you really shouldn’t do me that particular honor.”

“Ah, Halal.” Saddam smiled. “An amusing organization . . . Did we ever meet, during those nine years? You look familiar to me.”

“I attended a couple of your trials,” Mustafa told him. “And I was part of the team that executed the search warrant against the Hakum factory. I tried to speak to you on that occasion but your lawyers wouldn’t allow it.”

“A pity. I could have told you you were wasting your time. But I suppose you found that out on your own.”

“We surely did.” The Hakum Seltzer-Water bottling plant, located outside the city of Musayyib, had been identified by several trusted informants as a secret distillery producing thousands of liters of hard liquor, but a two-day search had failed to turn up so much as a drop of alcohol. The incident had been a major embarrassment for Halal, and a lawsuit by the plant’s management had resulted in the firing of one of Mustafa’s superiors.

“And now you work for Homeland Security,” Saddam said. “A much more satisfying career, I’m sure . . . And my son tells me you’re working for the president?”

Mustafa nodded. “A special assignment.”

“And you need my help?” Saddam raised his eyebrows, as if amazed that a humble palace-owner such as himself could have anything to offer.

“I believe you can assist my investigation, yes.”

“Then I shall be glad to. Come, let’s go to my office.”

“If I may ask . . . ,” Mustafa said.

“Yes?”

“That boy in there. Who is he?”

“His name is Stuart. He’s the son of an Englishman I’m doing some business with. He’s staying with me until the deal is completed, to make sure everything goes smoothly.”

Mustafa blinked. “The boy is your hostage?”

“My honored guest,” Saddam Hussein said. “Don’t worry, he’s being looked after. He’s getting his milk.” He paused, and a shadow of uncertainty crossed his face. “You there!” he called, to the woman minding the boy. “Is he getting his milk?”

“Yes, Saddam!” the woman replied.

“There, you see?” Saddam said to Mustafa. “He’s getting his milk. Nothing to worry about!”

Saddam’s office resembled a war room, with wall maps of Baghdad and other Iraqi cities, each map decorated with a constellation of pushpins. “Would you like to take some cell phone pictures?” Saddam asked, noting Mustafa’s interest in these. “I’m sure your old Halal colleagues would be fascinated.”

“They would,” Mustafa said. “But I’m not here for that.”

“Good. Very good.” Saddam opened a drawer in his desk and brought out two glass tumblers and a bottle. “You like whiskey? I know it’s early . . .”

“Ah, no thank you.”

“I insist. Before we talk business, you must have a drink with me.”

“I really can’t,” Mustafa said.

“Of course you can. Halal agents drink all the time, ex-Halal agents all the more so . . .”

“I’m a Muslim.”

Saddam chuckled. “So am I!” he said. “I’m not a saint, though, and I don’t trust men who act as though they are.” He poured a finger of whiskey into each tumbler and pushed one across the desk. “Come. Share a small sin with me, so I can relax. God will forgive you.”

The whiskey was bitter on Mustafa’s tongue and it made his eyes water, which Saddam found funny. “That’s good stuff. You should appreciate it!”

“I guess I’m not a sophisticate,” Mustafa said.

“Ah, but you are well informed.” Saddam placed a hand on the package containing the cards. “Who told you about this? Your friend Wajid Jamil I suppose.”

“I see I’m not the only one who’s well informed.” Mustafa set down his tumbler, which still had half a finger of whiskey in it. “You should know Wajid wasn’t spying on you, specifically.”

“No?”

“I asked Waj for help researching something we’re calling the mirage legend. One of his keyword searches turned up several eBazaar auctions, including that one. When he saw the mailing address attached to the winning bidder’s account, he contacted me.”

“Ah, the mailing address . . . Qusay warned me about that. ‘Rent a PO box,’ he said. But it’s a hassle, for something that’s not even illegal.”

“Your eBazaar account name isn’t exactly subtle, either,” Mustafa noted.

“Well, that I couldn’t resist. I’ve always been an admirer of Nebuchadnezzar.”

“So I gather.”

“I dedicated my first novel to him . . . He was a great leader. A great Arab leader, unlike Salah al Din, who had the misfortune to be born a Kurd.” Saddam’s expression grew distant as he sipped his whiskey. “You know, the Jews say Nebuchadnezzar went mad. For seven years. Exiled from his rule in Babylon, forced to live like a lesser person . . .”

“Like a beast, actually,” said Mustafa, who’d been reading the Book of Daniel as part of his research into rapture theology. “ ‘You shall be driven away from human society, and your dwelling shall be with the wild animals.’ ”

“But the story has a happy ending,” Saddam said. “At the end of the seven years, the king returned to his right mind, and to his throne.”

“Yes.” Mustafa glanced at the whiskey bottle. “After he submitted to God and became a righteous man . . .”

Saddam seemed to mull something over. Finally he reached under the edge of his desk and toggled a hidden switch. The section of wall on which the map of Al Hillah was mounted gave a shudder and began to swing inwards.

“Finish your drink,” Saddam said. “I want to show you something.”

“I call it my alternate-reality room,” Saddam Hussein said. “You know this expression, ‘alternate reality’? It’s a new media thing.” He waggled his hands in the universal gesture of the over-fifty trying to get a grip on the Internet Age. “My daughter Hala explained it to me. They do this thing now, to promote movies and new TV series, sometimes video games as well. They plant clues and hints in cyberspace, so it’s like this mystery for people to solve, but really it’s an advertisement.”

“They?” Mustafa said.

“Bollywood. The Hindus invented the practice. But now film companies here are doing it too, and in Israel. Some of the cutting-edge alternate-reality productions are very elaborate, not just stuff on the web, but live-action events with props. Hala, who is very interested in new media, got wind of an alternate-reality campaign that seemed to be about me. Now you know there’s going to be a movie version of Zabibah and the King—if my producer ever gets off his ass—so at first I thought it was connected to that. But nobody at the production house knew anything about it. So I had my people do some investigating, and they started finding these items, these—”

“Artifacts.”

“Yes. Like pieces of a puzzle. As you can see, someone is quite fixated on me.”

The room was like a small museum whose focus was the same as the vanity art in the rest of the house. On the walls behind glass were many newspaper and magazine clippings, all featuring Saddam’s image. Most of the clippings seemed to be from English-language publications, or ghost publications—Mustafa spotted several New York Times front pages.