“What?”

“You think they’ll do it? Just like that?”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“They have to make an example of you now. Every time there is a protest or a shooting or a bombing, it makes it more expensive to do business here. They need to show the foreigners that they are serious about making it a safe place for them to work.”

“But I can’t stay here. My mother was . . . There are things I need to attend to. And I have a little sister. She is alone.”

“She will have to learn to grow up, Faik. You will be here for many years.”

“No . . .” He started to stand, anger twisting his face, until Ahmed reached over, took his shoulder and pressed him down.

“Be quiet, brother. If the guards think you are going to cause trouble, you will be beaten.”

“I can’t stay here.”

“There might be a way.”

“How?”

“You want to get out of here, brother?”

Faik suddenly found his eyes were full of tears. He tried to say that he did, but the words would not come. He nodded instead, blinking the tears back and swallowing hard.

“Like I said: I am a lawyer. I am going to represent as many of the prisoners as I can. If you like, I can add your name to the docket.”

“Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.”

“Someone has to stand up for our rights. Some of the people in the government, I wonder sometimes whether they would prefer things as they were with Saddam. I would not. But we need to fight them. This is a good place to start, if Allah wills.”

“What do I need to do?”

“Nothing. I am going to speak to the governor tomorrow. There are nine of us. If you like, you can be number ten.”

Chapter Thirteen

Faulkner had a Land Rover Freelander parked in the short-stay car park. The gardens outside were well watered and healthy, but the road was barren and choked with dust that had been cooked in the sun all day. They drove for forty-five minutes out of the city, heading west, through a featureless desert landscape that looked almost lunar under the silvery starlight. They followed the same road that Saddam’s tanks had used twenty-five years ago, eventually reaching the border at Safran. It was a broad, open car park with several four-by-four vehicles, a couple of trucks and a collection of Portakabins. There was no official transaction to speak of, and after Faulkner had signed a document for a clipboard-wielding functionary, they were on their way again.

“How safe is the road?” she asked as they accelerated away.

“Better than it was, but still not safe. There’s a Glock in the glove compartment if you need a weapon.”

“Are you armed?”

“I’ve got a Sig.”

The landscape became more interesting the farther they travelled to the north. Route Eight was bleak and arid, just as in Kuwait, but now there were stretches that were littered with the carcasses of rusting tanks and other military vehicles, the detritus of war, a reminder of the fearsome power that had been ranged against Saddam’s men. They raced through occasional villages composed of low-slung huts with corrugated tin roofs, surly residents standing in their doorways and watching with suspicious eyes as they hurried past. They didn’t see another vehicle until they were well inside the border, and then it was just the lights of a military convoy moving in the distance.