With a click the flashlight turned off. I sat in the chair, waiting for whatever would come next. My eyes slowly became adjusted to the low light. A figure about fifteen feet away sat in a chair. He was robed and hooded. A hand held spotlight was on the floor next to him and a pistol was pointed at me. I could see a red beam of light reaching from the pistol to a place an inch or two above my eyes.

“What have you done with Rashida,” I demanded.

I could see the lower third of his face illuminated by the light from the window. He was clean shaven and his lips were thin and chapped. “If I told you she was in safe hands, would you feel reassured? No, I don’t think so. And who could blame you.”

“You’ve been a busy man, John. You’ve been running all over Baghdad. You’ve gotten yourself noticed. Lots of people are worried about you. Wondering about you, and how much you know.”

He rose and turned on the lights, lowered his hood and looked me in the eyes.

“And that’s just what I wanted them to do,” said Michael.