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we thought,” I said. “We thought we saw the all-clear.”
    â€œHmm,” Jean-Paul said.
    Charlie stood up and said, “Looks all right, Jean-Paul. Just a spoof.”
    Peter stepped around the side of the Toyota. “What’s going on? And what sort of a spoof?”
    â€œThere,” Jean-Paul said. “Charlie saw this before we ran into it.”
    I got closer and saw the “it.” A length of heavy string or fish line, stretched across the road. My throat tightened up and I stepped back. A tripwire. I remembered a slide-show briefing for us new arrivals, weeks ago, on booby traps and their uses. The other end of the tripwire could be attached to anything from a land mine to an artillery shell to homemade napalm. They were called IEDs: Improvised Explosive Devices. Rumor had it that some were built from the firsthand knowledge of local veterans who had served in Iraq years back. Some of the photos in the slide show displayed graphically what could happen to you after a tripwire had been used and one-inch-diameter steel ball bearings had come scything at a human target at waist height. I cleared my throat and said, “Charlie, how in hell did you see that?”
    Charlie smiled, rubbed at his strong chin. “Lucky for us it’s been a wet
morning. The dew collected on the string, so I could see it before we ran into it.”
    â€œJesus Christ,” Peter breathed.
    Charlie kept on smiling. “Doesn’t make much difference,” he said. “Still looks like a spoof.”
    â€œLike Peter said, what kind of a spoof?” Jean-Paul asked, still with that schoolmaster’s voice.
    Charlie motioned us to the string and we walked to the left side of the road. One end of the tripwire was tied firmly around a sapling, and when Charlie tugged the other end I flinched and both Jean-Paul and Peter swore and backed away, like me, expecting the sudden crump of a booby trap going off.
    But nothing happened. The string became limp in Charlie’s hands, and he tossed it to the side, among the tall grass and brush. “A spoof,” he said. “A fake booby trap, maybe to slow us down, maybe to give somebody amusement.”
    â€œMaybe those two boys,” I offered.
    Charlie nodded in my direction. “Perhaps. A spoof,” he repeated.
    â€œFine,” Peter said. “A damn joke. Can we get moving, see if that farm is for real—or is that a spoof, too?”
    Charlie looked over at Jean-Paul, giving him a knowing glance. I wasn’t sure what was exchanged in those looks, but Jean-Paul gave a little nod, as if something had been settled earlier. “All right, we move on. But we move on in helmets and body armor.”
    Peter protested. “What for? That bloody stuff’s hot and heavy.”
    Charlie looked at Peter, and the gaze made me flinch. “Better to be hot and heavy than be on the side of the road, bleeding out, waiting for a medevac chopper to dust you off,” Charlie said. “I’m the military advisor and escort to this little outfit, and right now I’m advising helmets and body armor, and your team leader’s agreed with me. So. You’ve got a fucking problem with that? Sir?”
    Peter shook his head, and I decided I liked Charlie even more. “No, no problem,” our Brit said.
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    WE RESUMED DRIVING after about fifteen minutes or so of digging through our gear, pulling out the black body-armor vests and the light blue helmets with the white UN crest. The helmets were dented and faded, the crest depicting the globe and olive branches chipped and worn away. Miriam held up hers and shook her head. “Makes me wonder what places this helmet has traveled, what horrors it has witnessed.”

    Peter said, “Is it clean? Is it whole?”
    â€œYes—why do you ask?”
    Peter smiled, showing his teeth, which needed a good brushing. “Just be glad there are no bloodstains or