"Yeah. Hi." Sam holds out her hand. "Sam Katchens from the Tribune"

He holds his hand out in return but doesn't seem to shake it the way I've seen other Americans do, and doesn't smile. "Look, sorry, but you'll need to leave now," he says, glancing at her and then scanning the horizon beyond us. I notice he has a translucent piece of plastic hanging over the rim of his ear and curling into the middle of the ear itself.

"Me?" Sam points to herself like she's not sure the man is talking to her. To me, it's clear he is. "Well, who gets to decide whether it's open to the press?"

"I do. And it's closed. I suggest you leave now."

"I'm sorry, but we've been invited by these people here to attend the meeting, and it's their country." Sam looks at his waistline. Is she searching for a gun? "Who are you, exactly?"

"It's not important. We're in charge of this area and I suggest you go right now."

"Is this some kind of a, uh, agency event or something?"

He leans in a little closer to her and speaks close to her face. "Ma'am, please take your little crew, get in your car and save yourself some trouble. If you want to be covering these areas, you gotta get yourself embedded with the military."

Sam gives him a hard stare, her lips slightly parted, her eyes darting back and forth across his face. Then she smiles. "Wow. You guys really are charming. No wonder you're off to such a good start here."

He stands staring back at her, his nose widening. I can feel a rattling in Sam's breathing.

"In fact," Sam continues, "I'm really proud of the example you just set for all these Iraqis of what American democracy is all about. Threatening a journalist and barring her from attending a big public meeting. Now that's not the kind of thing that happened under Saddam, is it?"

The bulk in his upper arms tenses and he places his hands on his hips. Only then do I notice it, the pistol at his left side, the furthest from me, sitting in a holster connected to his belt.

"Ma'am, I did not threaten you."

"Oh?" There is a shaking in Sam's voice, but she keeps turning it into something that sounds more aggressive than scared. "Then perhaps I'll just stay."

"Look, all I'm saying is that if I were you, I'd want to move on. You can't stay here, that's all. There's no authorization for press to be at this meeting."

"That's funny, because every Iraqi I talk to says there's no authority anywhere, which is why the whole place is pretty much falling apart." She stands straight, pulling her shoulders higher and wider, and he says nothing, his chest heaving up and down, a sign that he is growing angrier by the moment. "Good luck with your meeting," she says.

Sam walks unhurriedly back to Rizgar's car and I follow her. She ignores our agreement that she sit in the back, hops in the front and slams the door hard.

"The fucking nerve! Can you believe it, talking to us like that?"

Actually, he spoke only to Sam, and completely ignored me, but this is probably not a point worth making just now.

"These guys come in here and act like they own the place. Probably got here yesterday and already, he's the man."

We start driving west, towards Baghdad. It's quiet in the car. Sam puts her feet up on the dashboard. Anyone who sees would know in a second that she is not an Iraqi woman, and might find this behaviour insulting. I wait for Rizgar to say something, or to tell her to move into the back seat, but he's silent, which I take to be a sign that he doesn't push Sam when she's angry.

A few minutes later, to my relief, she takes her feet down.

"That was stupid," she says.

"What?"

"My reacting like that. I shouldn't have let that schmuck get me upset. Just a stupid spook."

"A spook is a spy, right?"

"Yeah, basically. I mean, not much of a spy, really. He wasn't exactly undercover. But he had to be CIA. He could have asked me to just keep it all off the record." She tsks, shakes her head. "I lost my cool. I'm not used to having some American official trying to stop me from doing a story in a place like this. Usually it's a local person, and then I can sweet talk my way through." She turns around and smiles with a closed, mischievous mouth. "Usually I find a way to get people to let me in on anything."

We are passing a column of tanks, which puts a chill in my neck.

"How do you convince them?"

Sam shrugs. "I try to play according to their rules," she says. "Guilt's always helpful," she says matter-of-factly. "You appeal to their sense of duty or national pride. You give them the sense that it would look bad if they didn't talk to you."

"Look bad for them?"

"Not necessarily them. The family, the company, the country. It doesn't really matter. At heart, people generally want to please. In this part of the world, especially, it seems that people want to please foreigners. They want to seem hospitable at all costs."

I think of the time when, as a kid, my parents found out that Ziad had stolen another boy's bicycle. Aib, was all my father had to say. Aib alek. Shame on you. My brother returned the bike immediately.

"Is a schmuck also a spy?"

Sam is on the verge of a laugh, and she looks away. "Sometimes. Sometimes a schmuck is also a spy. But in general, a schmuck is a jerk."

"Like a wanker?"

"Yeah, exactly. Like a wanker."

The checkpoint comes out of nowhere. Sam sticks her arm out of the window, clutching her American passport and a plastic card that says PRESS in large letters. An American soldier with hair lighter than hers, thick but cut close to his head like a carpet, is holding his gun with both hands while he approaches the car.

He takes her passport and opens it, turns a page and hands it back to her.

"What about them?" he asks.

"My driver, my translator," she says, using her two index fingers to indicate Rizgar and then me, like windshield wipers on a car.

"Do they have IDs?"

"They're Iraqis," Sam says. "What kind of ID do you want them to have?"

"We need to see some ID. Driver's licence, passport, something with a picture on it. I can't let you pass otherwise. This area's under surveillance."

I explain to Rizgar what they're looking for, and he pulls his driver's licence from his back trouser pocket. I open up my wallet to find that all I have with me is my expired university identification card.

"Wait here for a minute," the soldier says, walking off with our IDs. He walks back to the small encampment set up beyond the road, surrounded by piled-up sandbags and topped with swatches of sandy-toned, netted fabric that reminds me of an animal's lair. There, another soldier is speaking into a black device that looks a bit like Sam's Thuraya, only bigger.

Sam lets out an agitated sigh. "As if these guys can even read an ID in Arabic."

I shrug. "Maybe they have pictures of wanted men," I say.

Rizgar's foot is tapping nervously on the car floor. He reaches for the gearstick as if he is tempted to just throw it into first and go. Sam looks at him, and he sits back and sighs.

"Isn't there anything you wouldn't do to get a story?" I ask.

"Lots of things. First of all, I don't lie."

"No?"

"Well, I try not to. Not unless it's a really dangerous situation. It's mostly about convincing. You don't break rules, you bend them."

Rizgar points. The soldier is coming back. He taps on Sam's window and she rolls it down. "Here y'go," he says with a pleasant tone. He stoops a bit to address her. "You can go *head, but if I's you I'd be careful out there."

"Thanks!" she calls, and begins to crank the window back up. It gets stuck, as usual, near the top of the frame. She puts her hand against the glass to help it up, adding, "And if I were you, I would have gotten posted to Guantanamo Bay."

18.

Adding Adeeb's house is situated in a way my mother would have never tolerated: directly above a small grocery store and a butcher. In Birmingham, these stores were mostly run by Muslim immigrants, and although she would shop there for the halal meat, she looked down her nose at the people - mostly Pakistanis or Afghanis - who ran them. She thought there was something unclean about living above a place that sold food, as if untold numbers of filthy creatures would be living in the walls and pipes as a result.

But inside, Adeeb's house is nicer than I would have expected for a barber. The only thing that gives away the slight unseemliness of the location is the neon sign outside the window. Despite his wife's apparent efforts to dull it with a curtain, it shines a reddish light into the room, bathing his children's faces in an unnatural cherry glow.

They are four boys, and they sit in order of age next to Adeeb, who has the comfortable spot in the corner. Each child looks uncannily similar to the next, each a more tender version of the one before him. They remind me of one of those famous Russian dolls, the kind my father once bought Amal for her birthday, where each is a little smaller than the last.

Adeeb offers Sam and me seats covered in bright red carpets on the opposite side of the wide room. When he calls his wife in to meet Sam, a thin, pretty figure rushes in. Sam stands up and Adeeb's wife kisses her on both cheeks. Sam seems charmed. Adeeb doesn't say what his wife's name is.

"She doesn't speak any Arabic, right?"

"Very little," I reply.

"Arabic no?" he says, looking at Sam.

She smiles as if a little embarrassed. "Inshallah." She cocks her head in my direction. "Nabil here promises to teach me, but he's not doing such a good job so far."

I translate this and everybody laughs.

"I'm sorry to make you come at night. People are watching me during the day, and may be listening as well. If anyone saw you, they'll think you're only relatives or friends."

"No problem," I say.

I am surprised to hear Adeeb's wife speak up. "Is she a Muslim?" Her voice is genteel, almost delicate, as if she knows that this could be an inappropriate question.

"She wants to know if you're Muslim."

Sam is expressionless.

"No," I say. "She's Christian."

"I thought so," his wife says. "So she doesn't have to wear the scarf. Please tell her she is free to take it off if she likes."

I pass this on to Sam and she touches the black silky scarf that draws a dark border around her hairline. Against it, her skin seems fairer than usual. "I don't mind it, actually," she says. "It's very comfortable."

I tell this to Adeeb's wife and she smiles, pleased with Sam's answer. She must start getting the children to bed, she says, and begins by whisking the smallest one away, eliciting a cry of protest.

Adeeb pulls a short string of beads out of his pocket and leans back into the cushions. "How did you get to Subhi?"

"Subhi? We got to Subhi because..." I must ask Sam. I don't know how much to reveal. "How did we get to Subhi?" I ask her.

"To Subhi? Harris gave us his name."

"Aah. Yes, Harris," Adeeb says in English. "Very good man."

Sam nods. She doesn't mention that she has never met him, or that her editors have begun to think that maybe he is not so good.

"I...want help...you..." Adeeb shakes his head, starts again in Arabic. "I wanted to help him more but he didn't have so much time for me."

I tell Sam this, and she looks puzzled. "But wasn't Adeeb his fixer?"

"Were you not translating for him? Working for him?"

Adeeb nods. "Yes, I was working only for him, but he had others. At least four, I think."

"Four fixers?" Sam asks. "At the same time? Who could afford that?"

Adeeb shrugs. "He had a lot of money. But we didn't get paid every day. We got paid only on the days when we got some good information for him."

"They were paid for providing him with information, Sam."

"How's that work? No information, no pay?"

"He met us in the morning at the Palestine Hotel, gave us ideas, and said if we came to him at the end of the day with something good, he will pay for it. We were all competing with each other for the information so we can be paid. And for me I think this wasn't a good way for working, but otherwise I think Harris is a good man and if you-"

"Nabil, can you translate?"

They're both talking at the same time and it's starting to make me frustrated. I tell Sam I want to speak to him for a minute so that I can get it right. And she says fine, and leans forwards to take the tiny porcelain cup of tea Adeeb's wife has left on the table in front of her.

"So, many of you were working for Harris?" I ask.

"I think so," Adeeb says. "At least four that I know of."

"And he paid you whenever you could get him information?"

"Exactly. Fifty dollars a day."

"And if you didn't get any information that day?"

"He would give me about 30,000 dinars, just for the transportation."