“But you were there recently. What’s it like in Syria?”

“Different.”

“How different?”

“You have to watch your back in Syria. If the Syrians on your side tell you they’ll cover your flank, it probably means they won’t. There’s brother against brother over there. It’s different than Iraq.”

“So what’s a guy to do?”

“Cover your own damn flank.”

Shorty laughed. “That’s a good one. Best advice I ever got.”

“Shorty . . .”

“What?”

“Your brother comrade, Ali-Akbar, there was no reason for him to step on a wire. You guys are better than that. Cover your flank, son. I beg you!”

“Saleh, remember that village? I came out of the schoolhouse for just one minute and boom! I’d stepped out for a smoke. I thought we were done in that accursed village. Now I have to live with this for the rest of my life. Ali-Akbar was my brother. With Imam Husayn as my witness.”

“Don’t worry. The rest of your life won’t be much longer. Syria will see to that.”

His face lit up, a mixture of worry and enthusiasm. He looked like a boy about to smoke his first cigarette. “You really think so?”

“Yes. So please take care of all your business that you have to take care of first. If you need to bequeath this and that to someone, do so now.”

“A guy like me, what does he have to bequeath? You make me laugh, Saleh. I’m not educated like you. I finished seventh grade, that’s all.”

Later I’d find out that, officially, they’d put down Shorty and his two comrades as having been martyred in Iraq, not Syria. It had been a border operation. None of this mattered then and none of it would matter afterward. But at least Shorty’s family would get the martyr allowance that Ali-Akbar’s family would never get. Shorty’s op had been official; Ali-Akbar’s hadn’t. It was another stupid toss of the dice.

“Saleh, let’s find a mosque and pray together. For old time’s sake. Two rakats each for the happiness of the soul of our brother, Ali-Akbar.”

I pointed the way to the nearest mosque. “Do two rakats for me too. I have a little business inside. God protect you, brother.” I turned to go.

“Saleh!” I waited for him to speak. “One day at the Eye of the Horse we saw you bury a book. It was the first time you were there. We didn’t know you then.”

“So it was you guys who reported it!”

“We didn’t know what it was. We dug it up. Just a book. But we didn’t know what was in it. There was, you know, some other handwriting. But the book was English, I think. We didn’t understand it. Ali-Akbar . . . he said it was our job to report it. Just to be sure, you understand.”

“I understand.”