The boy looked up at him with stunned eyes. “I was not.”

“That’s not what your file says. It says you were arrested with an AK and two full magazines.”

“That is a lie. They are fabricating it.”

“Do you want to think about my questions again? Tell me about the Promised Day Brigade. Tell me about al-Sadr.”

“I know nothing about them, I swear it.”

He sighed expressively. “Fine,” he said. “I tried my best. Have it your way.”

He nodded at the two Iraqi policemen, and they quickly moved from the back of the room to where the boy was seated. The boy tried to stand, but they were at his side, each taking him by an elbow and a shoulder and pushing him back down onto the floor. Duffy took a towel from the floor and draped it over the boy’s face. He reached over to the tap on the wall, twisted it on, and took the hose just as the tepid, dirty water was starting to dribble out. He held the hose over Faik’s face and the towel quickly became heavy and sodden.

“Muqtada al-Sadr is responsible for the attacks on foreign oil workers in Basra. You know where he is.”

“I don’t!” the boy said, gasping for breath.

He lowered the hose so that the water fell directly onto Faik’s nose and mouth. “Tell me where he is and this can all stop.”

“I don’t know him!”

“Why are you protecting him?”

Faik tried to speak, but he could not.

“Where can I find Muqtada al-Sadr, you piece of shit!”

The boy coughed and spluttered again, and Duffy ripped away the sodden towel. Faik gasped for air.

“Pick him up.”

The policemen did as they were told.

The boy’s face and hair were wet. He looked much younger than before.

He coughed helplessly. His eyes shone with fear.

Duffy gripped him by the chin and tilted his head up so that he was looking at him. “How old are you?” Duffy said. “Really?”

“Nineteen,” he said quietly.

“Nineteen. Sounds about right, Faik. I reckon that’s the first truthful thing you’ve said to me all day.” He let go of the boy’s chin, and his head slumped forward, resting against his chest. He turned to the policemen. “Take him back to his cell.”

Duffy left the hut and stepped out into the baking heat outside. McNulty was still there. He was sitting on an upturned oil drum, watching the monitor as the policemen fixed cuffs around the boy’s wrists.

“You been watching?”

“Nothing better to do. What do you think?”

“He doesn’t know anything,” Duffy said. “He’s just a kid. What do you think?”

“That would be my guess.”

“Poor little bugger. He’s going to get thrown into a cell, and then God only knows what they’ll do to him.”

“Not our problem,” McNulty said, standing up and sliding his Ray-Bans onto his weather-beaten face. “You want to get another beer?”