"No, no. Ireland was very much against." I have no idea how Ireland behaved, or if Ireland had any say at all. Isn't Irish policy whatever Britain says it should be?

"Really? That's good." He pulls out the white plastic chair, its seat half baked to powder by sun, and drags it next to him. "Do you want to sit? Drink some tea."

"Oh, really, I would like that, but there are some people waiting for me and this matter is very important, so I must keep moving until I can find Abu Wahid."

"Well," the man says, resting his arm onto the back of the chair. "I don't think you'll find him. He's probably gone by now. But I do know some family members you could talk to." He reaches for the remains of the tea glass on the table. He swirls the grainy liquid with interest, frowns and puts the cup down. "I would like to help you, but I think they might be very angry if they knew I was helping some outsiders locate them. You know, the situation around here these days is very bad. Raids all the time, the Americans breaking into our houses and arresting people in the middle of the night, or while we're having dinner with our families. They come in and look at the women." He meets my eyes. "The financial situation is especially bad."

"I understand."

"Really, it's terrible. The Americans are blocking us from going anywhere, no one can work. A man needs to feed his family."

"I wish there was something I could do to help."

"Yes. Perhaps there is. I'm sure there are at least fifty people in Tikrit who would like to kill me simply for sitting here talking to you, if you're working with foreigners." He returns to the game, and the other man does the same.

I take the tiny notebook out of my back pocket, and then reach into my right front pocket, where I keep a little bit of cash. I pull out a wad of dinars, worth about $30, and fold it between the pages of the notebook, letting the crisp blue edges stand out. I place the notebook on the table next to the older man's hand. "Could you write me some directions to the place I'm looking for? I don't really know my way around this area."

The man takes the notebook, and the bills disappear under his sleeve. Sam probably wouldn't like it, but there is no other way. Using my pen, he scribbles a quick script in the notebook, then hands it back. "Suad al-Hamdani, in Al-Tamer neighbourhood, just south of here, in Ad-Dawr." He looks up at me. "That's Faisal's sister. She should be around."

I offer my thanks. He says I should be as quiet about his identity as he will be about mine.

"Actually, hajj, I didn't get your name."

"That's fine," he answers, happy that I have bestowed this honorific on him, which is appropriate for a man of his age, regardless of whether he's made the pilgrimage to Mecca. "I don't remember yours either. Nizzam was it?" He grins wider, almost towards a laugh, and stands up to shake my hand. He is much taller than he appeared to be when he was seated, almost a full head above me. His hand feels like worn leather, but the grip is strong.

The older man looks up at me and nods. "Be careful, now. There are a lot of crazy people out there." I nod in agreement and wish them well. I rush off down the street, forcing myself to slow down to a walk. Sam will be thrilled we have names and a location. And what would Sam say if I tell her I paid for it? She's been clear - we needed to come here to get something done. And look, I'm getting it done. How else could I have done it? It's an investment in getting the story. If she were an Iraqi, she would understand that sometimes there is no other way.

And if she were an Iraqi, she would never be doing the job she's doing now. She'd never have been my boss.

I hurry towards the corner where they left me, but Rizgar's car isn't there. I scan up and down the main road but I can't see them anywhere. Why would they leave? Didn't they say they would wait for me there? Why didn't I take the phone?

The sun is beating on me like a masghouf fish baking in the oven. I walk towards the shade of a few palm trees along the road. Where are they? What if someone noticed Sam and tried to kidnap them? What if she gets killed and the Americans hold me responsible? What if her family thinks it's my fault?

What if someone tries to kill Rizgar and rape Sam?

I can feel the sweat slipping down my back, the urge to pace. Suddenly I remember something my grandmother used to say. Al ajala min as-shaytan wattaanni min ar-rahman. Haste is the devil's work and patience is from the Merciful One. Just be patient, Nabil. But working with Sam has not taught me patience. And there is nothing, as far as I can see, that is patient about the process of journalism.

A few men in passing cars stare at me as they go by. Where are they?

I crouch closer to the earth, the way the day labourers do when they're waiting for a lift. Like this, maybe I'll pass for a farmhand. And if I wind up passing out in the sun, I won't have far to fall.

Finally I see the low-lying hood of Rizgar's Impala round the corner down the street. The car slowly pulls up next to me with the passenger-side window down. I suppose my face must give away my mood.

"What's wrong?" Sam, now in the front, looks baffled. "Is everything all right?"

I jump in and shut the door. "It's fine. I just thought you were going to wait for me here."

"We were," says Sam. "But there were some people watching us so we decided to beat it and keep driving around. We drove by one of the palaces. I was dying to go inside to check it out but we wanted to get back here to you of course."

"I have some names of Hamdani's relatives. I think we should just go quickly and find them and then return to Baghdad."

She looks over her shoulder at me. "Realistically? There's about a million troops in control of this town?"

Does Sam make her equations that way? If there are a lot of American troops, then we're safe? What if it's the other way around? The more of them that are here, the less safe we are. People who drive by us seem to stare into our car for too long.

"Why are you so worried, Nabil? Everyone says Tikrit is totally safe now. Last time we were here, it was fine. Right, Rizgar?"

Fine, except that last time they were here, Luqman, Sam's last fixer, was shot at. Why does she never mention that?

Rizgar shrugs, reminds me that Sam's the boss.

I shake my head. "Let's go to Ad-Dawr now and try to find some of these people and then head back to Baghdad."

Sam relents and we head towards Ad-Dawr. Going out is much easier than it was coming in and I'm not sure why the soldiers are so much more concerned about one direction of traffic than the other. Soon we're at the edge of Tikrit again and the big houses turn into mud huts and shacks. In minutes everything and everyone seems much poorer, as if we were in another country altogether.

I roll down my window to ask someone on the street for the Al-Hamdani family. As we follow his directions, we start rocking over an unpaved road with the Tigris visible at the end of it, dreary and brown.

"What palace did you go to last time?" I ask.

She looks surprised at the question. "Oh, we saw the Zulfakker Palace. It had these enormous carved wooden doors on the front and a sign outside that said the palace was built in defiance of UN sanctions. Isn't that a trip?"

I suddenly feel a well of jealousy against Sam. I would have liked to see Saddam's palaces. Now that he's gone, they're our palaces. She continues to explain how it looks, and I'm only half listening. A local person should explain his country to a foreigner, not the other way around. How strange that I'm always seeing Iraq through her eyes, virtually touching it with her hands.

27.

Touching We knock on several doors, all locked. Until we get to this one, which isn't even fully closed. After tapping on it a few times, I push it open. And then I have the feeling that maybe it would be a terrible idea to just walk in like that and so I step back, just as a voice calls out. "Marwan? Marwan is it you?"

"No, no. Uh, no, it's - I'm sorry, I was looking for someone from the Hamdani family." A woman appears from the hallway and looks frightened when she sees me, but after she notices Sam she seems more confused than anything else.

"I was just, pardon me, I was just looking for the Hamdani family and I thought that - is this the right place?"

She stiffens. Her fingers are arthritic, bent at unusual angles that look uncomfortable. "Who are you looking for?" Her clawish fingers grab for each other as if for solace. "Who are you?

"I'm Nabil al-Amari, from Baghdad. This is Miss Samara. She's a Western journalist I work with."

Sam, hearing her name, bows her head slightly and smiles. "We wanted to find some of the relatives of Abu Wahid," I say. "Faisal al-Hamdani?"

"You're looking for Abu Wahid?"

"Well, yes, it would be a pleasure to meet Abu Wahid. But we understand that he's probably not here."

She looks at me with hurt in her eyes and I can see that her hands are now trembling.

"Are you his relative then?"

"I'm his sister."

"Ah, I see, it is such a great pleasure to meet you. Such a pleasure to meet someone from such an esteemed family."

She smoothes her houserobe a bit, attempts to stand up straight, become taller, and smiles almost without moving her lips.

"We're very concerned about Abu Wahid's welfare," I say.

She eyes us standing in the doorway, as if trying to decide whether she should invite us in or tell us she cannot be of help. "Please," she says at last. "You must come in and have tea."

"That would be lovely, Sayida Suad. Pardon me, but you are Suad then, yes?" She nods and holds a craggy hand out to invite us inside. "We won't stay too long," I say. "We're just passing through town."

She leads us into a room of middle-class size, but which is wrapped in an upper-class veneer, and points to places for us to sit. The floor is covered with a red Persian carpet that I know costs at least $2,000 in the market, and the cushions are covered in a velvet fabric. An air of abandonment mopes about the room. Suad leaves us, shuffling off to make tea.

Sam refuses to sit, and takes herself for a tour, ogling the art on the walls. There are two cheap paintings of Saddam, and many family photographs, all well-framed.

"Don't ask any funny questions about Saddam," I whisper. "I made it sound like we're on their side."

Sam views me with a shot of scepticism.

"It was the only way I could think of to get her to let us in. So, if you can, play along."

Sam sits, reluctantly, and leans back into the cushion against the wall. She takes a breath that sounds like a sigh in reverse. A young man in his early twenties appears at the door, his eyes open so wide it seems as if he's in a state of shock.

I rise to shake his hand and exchange greetings. Sam stands up, her hands clasped. He must be Suad's son. I search his face for signs of Saddam, marks of the same genes as our great leader, murderous and missing. I see none, other than meaty skin with big pores. Saddam's skin always looked like sandpaper, as if even a lover who brushed his face would be chafed by it.

The young man takes a seat opposite us, taking interest only in watching us and stroking the scant beard growing around the perimeter of his chin. I try to make small talk with him, but he hardly responds, offering a guttural motion to wait for his mother. Maybe he has some sort of speech problem.

Suad comes in with a tray of orange-coloured drinks that appear to have a bit of juice mixed in and sets them down before us. I'm feeling a bit guilty that she has had to bother, when all I want is to have her look at the signatures on the documents, recognize them or not, and then leave. She sits down next to Sam, rather than next to her son, which somehow surprises me.

Suad hadn't been wearing a scarf when we walked in, but now she's draped a white one over her head. She has what my father calls country features - a wider nose, thicker lips, a fleshy face.

She waits for Sam to sip the juice and when she does, the rest of us follow suit. "Why are you looking for my brother?" she asks. "Do you work for the Americans?"

"No, no," I say. "We work for a newspaper."

"From what country?"

"Oh, Germany. An important newspaper in Germany."

"Is that German you were speaking to each other? With the lady?"

"Yes." Something churns in my stomach. Maybe the water mixed in with the juice is bad. What if the son isn't as stupid as he looks?

"We think maybe your brother will be accused by the Americans of doing things he didn't do. They'll look for him and they'll try to accuse him of war crimes, along with Saddam. Abu Wahid never hurt anyone, did he? I mean, he didn't kill people."

"Of course not!" Her face is indignant, her skin a spider's web of lines that weren't visible a moment ago. "My brother is an honest man. Only because he was smart and had an important job, he has these problems now."

"Of course," I say. "I imagined so."

Her eyes scan mine for a minute and then she looks to her son, who is staring at Sam. When I catch him, he averts his gaze. I motion to Sam to pass me her bag, and from the main pocket, I pull out the folder. "Would you know your brother's signature if you saw it?"

"His signature?"

"What he would sign, I mean, on a letter or a cheque, or a document. Anything like that. Would you know his handwriting?"

She nods. "I think so. We were only a year apart in school. He is only eighteen months older than me so I used to use his books." She purses her lips together, the skin around them lost in wrinkles. "Actually, I stopped going when I was sixteen because my father wanted me to get married and have a family."

"And this is your son?"

She laughs heartily. "He's my grandson. One of twelve. They left him to take care of me. But instead I think I mostly take care of him."

The young man emits a grunting sound like something hurts, and gets up and walks out.

"Where is your brother now?" It's probably not what Sam would have wanted me to ask, at least not so directly, but that's how it came out.

Her eyes begin to brim with tears. "Everything is the wrong way round now," she says, letting two tears go, and then wiping them with the back of her hand. "We have no one coming here but the American soldiers. No one to protect us. No electricity most of the time. Shooting every night." Her cry is like a near-silent wheeze, her voice suddenly hoarse. "I don't even know where my husband is," she wails. "He said he was only leaving for a few days. That's who I thought you were when I heard you come in."

Sam reaches into her bag and pulls out a packet of tissues. She hands one to Suad who thanks her and dabs at her eyes, leaving a few white shreds beneath her stubby eyelashes. I wait for a moment, until her crying subsides, and then open the folder.

"It would be really helpful if you could look at this." I take out one of the papers and put it on the coffee table in front of Suad. "Just tell me if the signature looks like it could be your brother's."

She picks up the paper and puts it in her lap. A teardrop falls on to the paper, and she uses the tissue to blot it. She sighs and blows her nose in the same tissue. I feel an urge to grab the paper back, afraid she'll drip and wipe and ruin it, somehow.

"Nabil, maybe she's too upset to do this. I don't want to force her to talk when she's-"

"No, I think she's fine. She's just sad, but she wants to help."

She examines the paper closely. "Muwafeq?" she calls. "Can you bring me my glasses? Muwafeq! They are just sitting on the table in the kitchen."

The sound of thumping, Muwafeq's slippers slapping over the tiles. The pace of his feet seems syncopated with the beating of my heart, which is pumping just a little too fast. He hands the glasses to his grandmother, then, without looking at anyone, reclaims the seat he had before, cross-armed and sulky.

"Where?" Suad asks.

"Here." I lean over and point to a signature on the sheet. "See, it says in print that it's the signature of Faisal al-Hamdani, and then, here, a signature." I tap on the page. "Is this your brother's signature?"

"This? This is someone writing my brother's name, but it cannot be my brother's signature."

"Are you sure? Sam, she says it's not his signature."

"Really?" Sam leans forwards a bit. "How good do you think her eyesight is?"

"You don't want me to ask that, do you?"

"He had very wide letters. Fat and large. Which is funny because he's quite slim. But they say people like to write their names the way they want the world to see them."