CHAPTER 2: AL-BAREED, MOSUL - THREE WEEKS EARLIER

Murphy replaced the radio on its cradle inside the oven-like up-armored humvee. He clicked his tongue. SSgt. Silas was sitting beside him in the driver's seat, with the rearview mirrors trained on a second floor apartment across the street. They'd returned from patrol to get a dehydrated newbie to one of the first aid trucks. The medic was working on the farm kid in their line of sight, having decided that saline would be enough to bring back the wilted soldier.

"How long are you going to sit there, pining for that chick?" he asked. Silas shoved the rearview mirrors to their normal position, but didn't say anything. "You can't have thought that was gonna work out, right?" he added.

"Don't be stupid," Silas said at last. "How's Tucker?" He pointed at the medics.

"That does it. Get out of this frigging car. Come on." Murphy popped the door and rounded the humvee. Standing in front of the driver's side door, he tapped the hood.

"Are you-"

The fast, high-pitched tone of Murphy's voice spoke volumes of how little patience he had left. "Come on. I'm sick of you moping around like a basset hound, scaring all the women away. If you never wanna get laid again, that's your problem; but you are making it real hard for me too, so don't make me drag you out of that car, bitch."

Silas laughed, but followed Murphy. They crossed the street quickly and got through the gate as fast. No one had thought to remove the length of piano wire he'd wrapped around the latch two years earlier to be able to open the big door from the sidewalk. The stairs to the second floor were hidden from the street by a whim of the architect, and Silas never felt so thankful in his life. Murphy knocked on the door twice.

The quick, loud rap was barely audible to Silas, his heart beating louder in his ears with every second that they stood in the top apartment's porch. Someone turned the locks and pushed open the door.

"Hal beemkani mosa'adatuk?" a female voice asked, too quickly for Silas or Murphy to understand any of the words or attempt to translate them.

"Hal tatakallamu alloghah alenjleziah?" Silas asked in awkward Arabic, sure that he'd bungled every word in the simple 'do you speak English.'

Their bristly host shook her head and closed the door. Silas knocked again. After a minute's wait, Murphy rapped on a window pane. The door flew open and the woman on the other side stepped into the tiny porch. For a second, Silas thought it was Jamila. The first glance was tricky; both women shared the same bone structure and build, the same skin tone. She stood there with an eyebrow raised in question. Silas realized he had no idea what he was going to say.

He went back to Al-Bareed every time he was stationed in northern Iraq, and he never passed by the building without looking for signs of life on the second floor. The family living there now was too large and too… Iraqi. Maybe the drab clothing on everyone he'd seen coming in and out was a sign of the uneasy situation in Mosul, but he had a hard time picturing Jamila in the sober black every woman seemed to wear lately. He'd been back a week after ripping Jamila's passports to shreds, after Lt. Benally left Camp Marez; but it'd been too late. The replacements were already in place, and she had vanished, without a trace.

"He's looking for Ja-mi-la," Murphy said breaking the lull. He spoke slowly, sounding out his words by the syllable. "She used to live here. Two years ago."

The woman shook her head. From inside the house a male voice yelled for her. In front of them, the housewife brought her hands to her hips and Silas saw the family resemblance again. The answer to the question was shouted, with attitude that seemed to flow from this older woman with the same charm and ease that worked for Jamila.

"Please," Silas said. "Min fadilak. Please." He saw faltering resolve in her eyes and watched her go inside the house. Sweat dripped from his head, down the back of his neck. The woman returned a minute later and handed him a scrap of notebook paper with a string of numbers scribbled in a corner. She said something else, fast and gruff, motioning for them to leave before she was done speaking.

Silas folded the piece of paper and tucked it away in a shirt pocket. He knew it was a phone number by the country code that started off the note. His heart felt a little lighter. It was too early in the chain of events for him to know this wasn't a number where he could reach Jamila directly, or that he'd have to spend over a $100 in phone cards before getting just a fraction closer to finding out what had happened to her.