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home. If the insurgents found them, they were dead men. So they scattered as soon as they were outside the gate, and Ferris scattered with them.
    An Iraqi car was waiting for him on the outside. It was a beat-up Mercedes from the mid-1970s, purchased back when Iraq was flush with money. The driver was one of Ferris's agents--a young man named Bassam Samarai. He had been living in the Iraqi community in Dearborn, Michigan, and had been dumb enough to believe the American rhetoric back in 2003 and head for Iraq with a fat stipend from the CIA. His family was from this area; they had protected him, and pretended to believe his story about coming home to start a new business importing satellite dishes and decoders. One day he would end up with a bullet in his head, Ferris knew. But there was nothing he could do about it.
    "Ya Bassam! Marhaba," Ferris greeted his agent. He slumped into the front seat and rolled up the window. The Iraqi was wearing a cheap leather jacket, and he had his hair slicked back with gel.
    "How are you, man?" said Bassam. "Are you cool?" He liked American street talk, even though Ferris told him it was insecure. It reminded him of home, in Dearborn. But it wasn't just that. Bassam had a twinkle in his eye today, as if he were dying to tell Ferris something.
    "I'm okay," said Ferris. "It's good to be out of there. I get sick of Balad. Too many crazy Americans. I'm ready for some crazy Iraqis."
    "Well, boss, I have someone very crazy for you today. This one you are not going to believe. Really, man. He's too much." Bassam was sounding like a DJ in his excitement.
    "What have you got?" said Ferris.
    "The real thing, man. An Al Qaeda guy, from up near Tikrit. I knew him when I was a kid, before I left. His name is Nizar. He wanted to come to America but he couldn't get the papers, so he worked in Saddam's Moukhabarat. He got all messed up in the head after liberation, you know, like a lot of those Tikritis, and he started working with Zarqawi. At least that's what he says. He's scared shitless now, man."
    Ferris's eyes were alight. He pulled the kaffiyeh a little tighter, so people in nearby cars couldn't see his face. This was what he had been waiting for these past three months, if it was true. "How did you find this guy, Bassam?"
    "He found me, man. He's terrified the bad guys are going to kill him. He was supposed to do a martyrdom operation, but he got scared. He knows a lot of shit. He wants us to help him--you know, get him out of here."
    "Oh, fuck." Ferris shook his head. "You didn't tell him you're working for Uncle Sugar, did you?"
    "No way, man. I'm not dumb. No, he came to me just because I used to live in the States, that's all. He thinks I can fix shit for him. I told him I'd see what I could do. He's up at my uncle's house, between here and Tikrit. I told him we'd come see him today."
    Ferris looked at his hip-hop Iraqi agent. "You are the real deal, Bassam. You know that? I'm proud of you."
     
    T HEY DROVE with the morning traffic up Highway 1, the main route north that followed the banks of the Tigris toward Tikrit. U.S. supply convoys rumbled past, and like all the Iraqis, Bassam slowed down to let the trigger-happy American soldiers pass. That would be the worst, thought Ferris, to get blown away by some reserve NCO from Nebraska who was riding shotgun for an armed convoy bringing steaks and soda pop to the troops up north. Bassam was playing Radio Sawa, an American station that mixed American and Arab music and was the one real propaganda success the United States had achieved. He was rapping along with an Eminem song when Ferris broke in.
    "We have to be careful, Bassam. If this guy is as good as you say, they are going to kill him as soon as they find he's on the lam. You have to get real serious about tradecraft now, brother. You hear me?"
    "Yes, boss. I'm cool."
    "No, you are not cool. You're going to get us killed, along with your pal Nizar. So pay attention. We have to move around,