Montgomery was not here. Apparently, he had run into trouble because of the death of the SAS man Gilmour. Monty had authorized them to go al-Barak’s compound, but not on to the militia compound. Big Daddy and Don Morris had given the order anyway. As far as Big Daddy was concerned, the SAS men were on loan to the CIA.

Big Daddy and Monty were no longer on the same page about this. There was some talk of Monty being recalled to London. As far as his superiors were concerned, Gilmour’s death was on his hands.

Luke was sorry that Gilmour had died. He hated that it happened. But the office politics surrounding that death was not Luke’s major concern.

The militia leader began to speak.

“Yes, I know the phrase,” the translator said. “But I remind you that any forms of torture or coercion are against the laws of war.”

“Is murdering an old man and his entire family in alignment with your laws of war?” Big Daddy said.

The translator spoke for a few seconds, then listened to the bearded man’s response before speaking.

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“How did you know the helicopters were coming?”

The man shrugged. “People tell me things. How they know these things I cannot say. Spies, I suppose.”

He glanced around the room. “The walls themselves have ears.”

Big Daddy nodded. He looked around the room. It was a small, barren, empty place. The house was ugly, a squat structure made of cinderblock. This room was a perfect microcosm of the rest of the house. The walls were cracked and turning a sickly shade of green. Bare wires extended from the walls, attached to nothing. There was no electricity in here. The floors had been ripped up to bare cement. The room itself had no windows to the outside world.

The house stood nearly alone in a neighborhood that was mostly rubble. It had been bombed and strafed with automatic fire. Nearly all of the homes had been destroyed. Insurgents had held out in this area for a time. Now no one at all was here.

“Where do you think we are?” Big Daddy said.

The translator spoke. The militia leader shrugged his shoulders. It was one of the few movements still available to him. Luke was surprised at how confident he seemed. The man had seen a lot of death. Any Iraqi who had survived this far into the war was on an intimate basis with murder. He had dedicated his life to his god, and had probably done many horrible things in that god’s name. Perhaps there was little left that frightened him. Perhaps he considered himself a martyr already.

The man smiled. “I was hooded when I was brought here. I could not see. I have no idea where I am.”