He hadn’t taken communion since leaving Heidelberg. He knew there were Christian churches in Baghdad but didn’t know what kind they were or what sacraments they offered, and anyway he wasn’t supposed to leave the hotel before it was time for his mission. So he made do in the room. He took a hunk of leftover bread from last night’s meal and found a bottle of red fruit drink in the mini-fridge. He recited the words of the Last Supper as best he could recall them. Christ’s body was stale, His blood more pomegranate than grape and not at all fermented, but still Joe Simeon felt refreshed, his sins washed away.

Just to be sure, he ran a bath, pouring in a handful of floral-smelling salts. He lay in the tub, pictured Jesus in the river Jordan, and holding his nose and mouth submerged himself completely.

He got out and dried himself off and opened up the shirt box. The suicide vest was heavy, in form very much like a flak jacket, but padded with plastic explosive rather than Kevlar. Strings of nails had been pressed into the squares of plastique to serve as shrapnel. The nails seemed like a crude touch, but the detonator and wire work were first-rate, and great care had been taken to minimize the vest’s profile.

He slipped it on. There was a long-sleeved cotton shirt in the box as well, which he buttoned over the suicide vest, and a second, outer vest of dark cloth that he pulled on over that. He examined himself in a mirror, turning sideways to check: Does this make me look fat?

It didn’t. He’d seen one other explosive vest, worn by a crusader in Bonn to blow up a busload of Israelis, and that one had been a lot bulkier, hard to conceal even under a winter parka. This one he thought might evade the scrutiny of even a trained observer, and he should be able to move in a civilian crowd without drawing suspicion. The hardest part would be not sweating to death in the midday heat.

It was ten o’clock. He still had a couple of hours to wait, so he undressed again, laying the vest carefully back in its box, and sat on the bed in his underwear. He was keyed up and giddy, feeling as though his soul had already begun the process of leaving his body. He picked up the TV remote and channel-surfed manically, unable to focus.

The image of a cross caught his attention briefly. It was a broadcast of a Coptic church service, an Egyptian priest reading from the Gospels: “But go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ For I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners . . .”

The words, unsubtitled, were just so much babble in Joe Simeon’s ears. He changed the channel again and prayed to God to speed the hour of his death.

Samir was waiting in the tea shop near the Israeli embassy. He had a dark bruise on his cheek and a split lip on which the swelling had only begun to go down.

“Samir, what happened to you?” Mustafa said when he saw him.

“Najat’s father,” Samir told him. He touched a fingertip to his lip and checked it for blood. “I went to Basra yesterday to warn Najat to take the boys somewhere safe. Getting punched in the face wasn’t part of the plan, but it did seem to convince her to take me seriously.”

Mustafa pulled out a chair and sat down. “Idris threatened your children?”

“Among other things.”

“Why didn’t you say something? We could have—”

Samir bristled. “Why didn’t I say something? You mean like, ‘Mustafa, I think it’s a really stupid idea to piss off the head of Al Qaeda?’ Something like that?”

“I’m sorry,” Mustafa said. “You’re right, I’m an idiot.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking that too,” Samir said. Then his anger deflated and he shrugged. “What the hell, it doesn’t make a difference. That son of a bitch has had it in for me since grade school. Even if I’d walked away from this investigation—even if I’d convinced you to walk away—he still would have found a reason to ruin my life.”

Mustafa nodded at the suitcase in the chair to Samir’s right. “Is that from your trip to Basra, or are you going someplace else?”

“Keeping my options open,” Samir said. “When I got home this morning, someone had been in my apartment. I was going to make myself a snack and noticed a thumbprint on the refrigerator door. Lost my appetite . . . So I threw some things together and got out.”

“Where would you go? To be with Najat?”

“No, I don’t know where she is going. It’s better that way. I don’t expect to see her again.” His voice hitched. “Or Malik and Jibril . . . I was thinking I might go to Greece.”

“What’s in Greece?”

“A chance I was too cowardly to take.” He smiled sadly. “I’m still too cowardly, really. Really what will happen, I’ll slink around Baghdad for a couple of days until Idris catches up to me. Then my troubles will be over.” He sighed. “Mustafa, I’ve got something to tell you . . .”

“Before you do,” said Mustafa, “I’ve got something to ask you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Are you still my friend?”

“Not a very good one I suppose.”

“The same could be said of me, the reckless way I’ve been acting,” Mustafa pointed out. “And you did save me from being burned alive by that Minuteman.”

Samir shook his head. “That doesn’t count. You and I were supposed to be dead already, along with everyone else in the convoy.”

“But we didn’t die. God gave us another chance—and you made good use of yours. Now I would like to do the same. Tell me you’re my friend and I can trust you, and whatever happened in America—whatever Idris forced you to do—it’s behind us. Forgotten.”

“Just like that, huh?” Samir barked a laugh, but then his throat hitched again and he began to cry. His shoulders shook as he wept, all the fear and shame that had been weighing on him releasing in a torrent. Mustafa took his hand and held it.

“Fuck, man,” Samir said, when the storm had passed. He swiped water from his eyes, wincing as the heel of his palm pressed the bruise. “You know God didn’t really give us another chance, don’t you? Just a little reprieve. Idris is going to kill us both, Amal too probably.”

“God willing, that is possible,” Mustafa conceded. “But I choose to be optimistic.”

“Remember what we were just saying about you being an idiot?”

“Yes,” Mustafa said smiling. “Your idiot friend.”

They were both laughing a few minutes later when Amal came in the tea shop. She approached the table slowly and asked Mustafa: “Do you need more time?”

“No.” He gave Samir’s hand a last squeeze. “We are good.”

“Good.” Amal nodded to Samir, noting the bruise but not saying anything about it. She sat down. “The coast looks clear outside. Or at least, if Al Qaeda is following us, they’re doing a good job hiding the surveillance.”

“We shall have to trust to God about that too,” Mustafa said. “Now, speaking of Al Qaeda: Tell Samir what you told me, about Osama bin Laden.”

The noon prayer had just ended and men and women were coming out of a mosque adjacent to Zawra Park, exchanging the blessing of peace as they headed off to lunch or back to work. Joe Simeon watched them from the back of an air-conditioned cab. He wiped condensation off the window to get a clearer view and stared at the mosque’s entrance, wondering what it was like inside. Would they have stained glass, like a real church?

The cabbie mistook the nature of his interest: “You are Muslim?”

“What?” said Joe Simeon. “No. I’m a Christian.” So there was no ambiguity: “I have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ.”

“Christian, I thought so,” the cabbie said nodding. “American?”

“Originally.”

“ ‘Originally,’ ” the cabbie repeated slowly, the word not in his lexicon. “This is your hometown, Originally?”

“Yeah,” Joe Simeon said. “Originally, New York. It’s just outside Manhattan.”

“Manhattan I have heard of.” The cabbie nodded again. “You know, the Muslims of Baghdad, we pray for the Christians of America, of Manhattan. Now that the war is over—now that you are free—we have very high hopes for you. That you will become, what is the word? Civilized!”