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us.”
    The words seem to slip out inadvertently, and Abu Ali looks surprised at the admission.
    “What about the suicide bombings? Is that what you want for Iraq? More violence?”
    He stammers. Hadir watches him intently. Abu Ali finally bursts out, “It was the only weapon we had.” Hadir mirrors his vocal inflections. He sounds desperate to believe his own words.
    Bobby jumps in and goes for the throat, “Abu Ali, do you want your son to grow up in this cycle of violence? Do you want him living in an Iraq where he can’t even go to the market without getting blown up?”
    Defiance flares in him. “I would be happy to see my son die. He would die a martyr.”
    Bobby and I both sense he doesn’t mean it.
    “Come on, Abu Ali. Your only son. You would give your only son to this insanity?”
    “Yes.”
    “Bullshit!” Bobby yells. “That’s fucking bullshit and you know it!”
    Bobby is throwing his last ace. And then Abu Ali’s head drops ever so slightly.
    “I just want things back the way they were,” he says in a gentle voice.
    We’ve gotten to him.
    “Your son doesn’t have to die,” Bobby says.
    Abu Ali rubs at the water in his eyes. He struggles to maintain his composure and squirms in his chair.
    “I want my son to live in peace.”
    “Well he won’t. He’ll live in this violence, in this hell, unless you do something about it.”
    A long silence fills the interrogation booth. We wait him out. The tears slow.
    “There are two farmhouses south of Abu Ghraib in Yusufiyah.”
    Bobby leaps at this. “What are they used for?”
    “They rotate through them. They are used for blessing suicide bombers.”
    “Will you show us where they are?”
    Abu Ali looks at Bobby and then looks at me and then back at Bobby.
    “Yes.”
    Bobby reaches for the laptop on the table between us. It’s loaded with digital satellite maps of Iraq that display on the flat-screen TV on the wall. Bobby scrolls through the maps and follows the route from Baghdad onto the main western highway toward Abu Ghraib. Abu Ali recognizes a bridge on the highway and slowly he works his way south on the map and locates the first farmhouse. It’s a lone house in the middle of farmland. The closest neighbor is a mile away. When we mark the location, Abu Ali says, “This place issometimes used for meetings. Suicide bombers gather there as well.”
    “Meetings between whom?” Bobby asks.
    “I don’t know.”
    He’s not willing to go that far yet.
    Then Abu Ali asks Bobby to return the map to Abu Ghraib. From there he tracks north on a minor road and then down a dirt path to another farmhouse.
    “That one,” Abu Ali says.
    “What’s this one used for?” Bobby asks.
    “Sometimes they store weapons there.”
    “Thank you Abu Ali. You have helped us and you have helped Iraq.”
    “I did not do it for you. I did it for my son.”
    “My friend,” Bobby says, “tell us who you and Zaydan work for and we can help you get back to your son. You can get back to taking care of your family.”
    That’s too much. Abu Ali shakes his head. His eyes go icy again.
    “I cannot tell you that.”
    “Cannot or will not?” Bobby demands.
    “I want my son to live.”
    “We can protect you and your family.”
    Silence. This time, it endures. We get nothing further from Abu Ali. He shuts down, resolved to his fate, and we send him back to his cell.
    Afterwards, we huddle with Cliff back at the ’gator pit. We show the analyst the locations Abu Ali gave us of the safe houses. We mention that he said meetings are sometimes held at the first and weapons at the second.“This one farmhouse looks familiar,” Cliff says. He turns to Bobby.
    “Isn’t this the one that you got from a previous detainee? The police source?”
    “I think so,” Bobby replies.
    “Well, this is good stuff, gentlemen,” Cliff says with a smile. “We’ll pass this on to the SF guys and see what they can find.”
    We return to our desks and get back to work. In a