Finn’s hand starts fidgeting, like he’s twirling a cigarette between his fingers. “An Iraqi subcontractor in Baghdad. We had to deliver cash to him. He didn’t want to come to the Green Zone to pick up his paycheck. Lots of Iraqis didn’t, made them targets for militia groups or the Sunni insurgents or the fucking jihadists. So sometimes we’d have to get in a car and drive bags full of cash across Baghdad to deliver to some guy in the back of a pharmacy or a clothing store.

“This guy, though … Ahmed worked on the electrical grid, which was always having problems, so he was always busy. We were busy too. This was in March ’04, and the CPA was handing over authority to the Iraqis at the end of June, so everybody was freaking out that the gravy train was going to be cut off. More flights carrying cash, more security details, more disbursements. Anyway, Ahmed insisted that we take the money to him in Sha’ab, a neighborhood on the north side of Baghdad. It wasn’t far from Sadr City, which at that point was a time bomb. American patrols getting ambushed, police stations attacked. No way we were driving into Sadr City in a fucking Hyundai with five hundred grand in cash. We figured Sha’ab would be okay, though, so we went up there, me and your dad and an Iraqi translator and five other guys in two cars. Couldn’t roll up in a Bradley or a Humvee without attracting attention.

“We got to the apartment building where we were supposed to meet Ahmed and left three men guarding the cars on the street. Ahmed’s apartment was on the third floor, so we went up the stairs, one grunt and the Iraqi translator carrying the bags, the rest of us with our M4s ready.

“Ahmed was this short, balding guy who looked like he’d lost a lot of weight, skin hanging on his face, belt tight around his waist. Some Iraqis would serve Americans tea if you visited their homes. Ahmed, though, he was about as friendly as a cage. And it was clear this place wasn’t Ahmed’s home—there was a futon and some folding chairs and a table, nothing on the walls. It was a meeting spot. And there were three other guys there, all armed. That wasn’t unusual in Baghdad, especially when there was money involved. But it felt wrong. Still, there were four of us and four of them, plus three more of ours outside. And we were just couriers, dropping off money.