He made his way to an SUV that was idling at the curb. Three other Qaeda men with drawn pistols were close behind him, and bringing up the rear were two more men with the prisoner between them. The prisoner’s handcuffs had been supplemented with a pair of leg irons, so he had to be carried down the steps from the building’s rear exit.

The SUV’s front passenger door was locked. Siraj al Din yanked impatiently at the door handle and bent his face to the window. He had just enough time to identify the shotgun muzzle on the other side of the glass before the Baath killer in the driver’s seat pulled the trigger. Two more Republican Guardsmen in the rear of the SUV opened fire through the tinted side windows, killing the Qaeda men with the pistols. The duo holding the prisoner separated and tried to find cover, but the figure in the burqa had pulled a rifle from the shopping basket and was already taking aim; within seconds, these last two Qaeda agents were dead as well.

The Republican Guardsmen jumped out of the SUV and rushed to secure the prisoner, who’d stood unflinching through the gunfire. Qusay Hussein stripped off the burqa and dropped it and the rifle back in the basket. Then he went over to take a closer look at their prize. He’d never seen a jinn before and wasn’t sure he believed in them. And indeed, the prisoner looked just like a man—defiant and unafraid, perhaps, but human.

“Murder is a sin,” the prisoner informed him.

Qusay glanced unconcerned at one of the nearby corpses. “These men were murderers too, you may be sure.”

“What does that logic suggest about your own future?” the prisoner said.

Qusay didn’t bother to answer. A trio of police cars had just rounded the corner, responding to the gunfire. Qusay stepped to the curb and gestured for them to hurry.

By the time Mustafa and the others arrived, sand had begun to coat the corpses and collect in drifts on their windward sides. Siraj al Din, decapitated by the shotgun blast, resembled a beach sculpture eroded by the tide. The street had been closed off and a mixed group of AHS, ABI, and local police were wandering about the scene.

After a quick look at the bodies, Mustafa, Samir, and Amal took shelter inside the building. While Amal got on her cell phone, Mustafa and Samir spoke to Abdullah, who was battered but conscious. Farouk had been taken to the hospital; Joe Simeon was bound for the morgue.

“They said they were from Riyadh,” Abdullah explained. His face was streaked with blood, and he kept an ice pack pressed to his scalp as he spoke. “They said they had orders to collect both prisoners. And they had proper ID, but something about the way they just barged into the interview suite without any advance warning . . . I don’t know, it just didn’t feel right. So I told them they were going to have to wait outside while I made a call, and that’s when the big bastard bounced my head off the glass.”

“The prisoner they took with them,” Mustafa said. “Can you show us the recording of Farouk’s interview with him?”

“No. I checked. They erased it and took the backup disk.”

“What did he look like?”

Abdullah described him. “He talked like he knew you . . .”

Amal had finished her phone call. “Abu Naji says we missed Bin Laden at the hotel,” she told them. “According to the staff, the senator and his bodyguards checked out right around the time we arrested Idris. They were supposed to fly back to the capital this evening, but they haven’t checked in for their flight yet, and now it looks like the planes are all grounded anyway.”

“I doubt Bin Laden would leave Baghdad now even if he could get a flight,” Mustafa said. “What he wants is here . . . OK, let’s assume the dead men outside are Al Qaeda, sent to grab this . . . person of interest. Would anyone care to guess who their killers are?”

“Umm Dabir told me she looked out the window after she heard the shooting,” Abdullah offered. “She said she saw police cars pulling up and driving away again . . .”

“Baghdad PD,” Amal said. “Saddam.”

Samir looked at Mustafa. “You think they’d take him to the Adhamiyah estate?”

“They might, especially if Saddam were in a hurry to start making wishes.”

“That’s simple, then,” Amal said. “Let’s get some more people together and head across the river.”

“We could do that,” said Mustafa. “But if the cops outside see us assembling a raid team, they might call ahead and warn Saddam.” He considered. “The three of us ought to be able to sneak away unnoticed, however.”

“And what are the three of us going to do against the whole Republican Guard?” asked Samir.

“Scout the territory,” Mustafa said. “Amal, call Abu Naji back. Tell him to get over to the Baghdad ABI office and round up as many agents as he can for a raid on Saddam’s Adhamiyah estate. Tell him to be careful not to let the police know, and tell him to hurry. Oh, and he needn’t bother with a warrant.”

“Exigent circumstances?” Amal smiled. “Whose life shall I say is in danger? The missing prisoner’s, or ours?”

“That all depends,” Mustafa said, “on what the prisoner is really made of.”

Saddam Hussein waited at the turnaround in front of his mansion, dressed in an authentic Iraqi military uniform purchased off eBazaar. Oversized mirror shades allowed him to gaze unblinking into the storm. He was grinning broadly in anticipation and every few moments had to turn and spit sand from between his teeth.

Presidential Secretary Abid Hamid Mahmud stood to Saddam’s right, looking significantly less jubilant. To Abid’s right was the sorcerer Mr. Rammal, his expression hidden beneath the cowl of his robe. Forty Republican Guardsmen were arrayed on the mansion’s front steps, weapons at the ready. Their faces were impassive: They might have been awaiting the arrival of a head of state, a shipment of gold bullion, or a battle.

Behind the Guard, sheltering beneath an overhang by the front door, were Tariq Aziz, Uday Hussein, and a small group of male servants. Aziz and the servants looked nervous; Uday, sullen. Uday was furious at having been kept home from the mission to retrieve the jinn. He was also bored: All the women of the house, from his mother down to the lowliest maid, had been sent away.

The police cars arrived and were waved through the front gate. They came up the drive and pulled to a stop at the turnaround. Qusay got out of the lead car. He nodded to his father, then opened up the car’s back door and reached inside.

As the prisoner’s feet touched the ground the wind whipped up violently. Abid and Mr. Rammal were staggered by it, and the Guard had to struggle to maintain their ranks. Aziz threw up an arm to shield himself and the servants covered their faces in fear. Uday, remembering how he’d shamed himself earlier, balled his hands into fists and leaned into the wind.

Saddam stood his ground. He waited for Qusay to pull the prisoner upright, then removed his sunglasses and peered squinting into the prisoner’s eyes. “Welcome to my home!” he said, shouting to be heard above the wind’s howl. He tugged playfully at the chain between the prisoner’s wrists. “Welcome to my service!”

Halal Enforcement had a boat dock on the river one block east from the Homeland Security building.

The three of them had donned goggles before setting out, and Mustafa and Samir had tied rags over their mouths and noses, while Amal used her headscarf. They looked like bandits, and as they approached the guard shack at the dock entrance Mustafa expected to be challenged. But the shack was deserted, and though the gate was locked the keypad entry code had not been changed in a decade.

They boarded a motor launch with an enclosed cabin and set off upriver. The sandstorm was getting worse. The sky had turned a dull orange from the amount of dust floating above the city, and visibility dropped until it was down to less than fifty meters. Mustafa used the onboard GPS to navigate, while Samir and Amal kept a sharp lookout for approaching vessels. Fortunately most of the other river traffic seemed to have pulled off to wait out the storm.