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starting tonight. I can't stay in the same place twice this week, and neither can you. If your man Nizar checks out, he's solid gold. We're not going to get him killed with sloppy shit. We don't get chances like this very often, and I'm not going to blow it. You hear me? Huh? You fucking hear me?"
    "Yes, boss," Bassam said again. But Ferris knew that he understood.
     
    B ASSAM'S UNCLE lived down a long dirt road near Ad-Dawr, a few miles south of Tikrit. It had once been a farm; you could still see the irrigation equipment, but now the fields were a mess of tangled weeds and derelict equipment. Ferris told Bassam to park the car behind the main house so it couldn't be seen from the road. A smaller house stood under a eucalyptus tree about fifty yards from the main villa. Bassam said it was empty. Ferris told him to bring Nizar over to the smaller house, and not mention to his uncle or anyone else that Ferris was here. Bassam gave him a wink, trying to look cocky, but Ferris could tell that he was scared.
    Ferris let himself in the little house. It stank of shit, animal or human he couldn't tell. It was a coarse fact of Iraqi life that people took a dump in almost any space that was unoccupied. He opened the windows to air the place out, set up the chairs so he could talk to Nizar without being seen. And then he sat and waited.
    Bassam arrived ten minutes later with Nizar in tow, talking an Arabic version of the singsong patois he adopted in English. Nizar was a short man, built like a fireplug, with a big moustache that drooped over his lips. Ferris didn't understand all the Iraqi slang, but he could tell that Nizar was nervous. There was a tremor in his voice, even talking to Bassam, and his eyes darted back and forth, scanning the horizon for the danger he knew was out there. When he entered the little house, he peered at Ferris, trying to make out his face in the shadows.
    "This is my Egyptian friend," said Bassam, pointing to Ferris. "Maybe he can help you."
    They exchanged Islamic pleasantries. Peace be with you; God grant you health. Bassam had brought a bottle of water with him from his uncle's house, and he poured it out ceremoniously into three dirty glasses. It took a while to get started, but it was always a mistake to rush anything in this part of the world.
    "I can help you, my friend," said Ferris in his Egyptian-accented Arabic.
    "Thanks God," said Nizar.
    "But why do you need help? What are you afraid of?"
    "I know too many things, sir. I have traveled with Abu Musab. I know his secrets. They trusted me. They were going to send me outside Iraq. They prepared me. But then a few days ago they said sorry, they needed me for a martyrdom operation in Baghdad. I think they did not trust me anymore. I don't know why. Rumors, maybe. They hear that I know Bassam, maybe. That was when I ran away. They have too many martyrs. I don't want to die. I want to go to America."
    "I can help," repeated Ferris. "I know people who can get you to the United States. Money, a visa, a green card. Everything. But you know the Americans. They are greedy. You must give them something, or they will never help you. So what can you give them? You tell me, and then I will know if I can help you."
    Nizar shook his head. "It is too dangerous," he said. "I will tell only the Americans. I cannot trust the Arabs. They will betray me."
    Ferris thought a moment. Everything the man had said so far sounded rational. And he was right to think that he could not trust Arabs. The pitch would have to come from an American. Ferris knew that revealing himself as an American this early was a violation of his ops plan, but he couldn't think of any other way to make it work. He leaned forward in his chair so that his face was in the full sunlight, and took off his kaffiyeh so that Nizar could see his features
    "I am an American, Nizar. I work for the National Security Council," Ferris said in English, and then he repeated it in Arabic. "I can help you to get