Baghdad, 1991.

The thin, weatherbeaten man raised his head & squinted into the morning sun. The foot traffic near the Al Khadimiya Mosque was heavy. Mostly refugees, a few traders on their way to market, and a scattering of miltary police looking for excuses to harass the refugees, particularly any Kurds looking for passage south.

"Allah saves!" he called out. No-one paid attention.

"Damn this heat", he thought to himself. He never really got used to it, but always managed to get the Middle Eastern jobs because as Albert, his old comrade, pointed out, the Agency knew he could "do" Arab. And Jewish come to that. And it helped that he was fluent in several local dialects.

"Mohammed sees your soul!" he offered to the throngs.

"Poor devils" he mused, regarding the passing crowds, "Most of them are more concerned with where their next meal is coming from rather than their mortal souls. Still, the preacher gig had served him well over the years. He was quite a well known figure actually, excepting that ironically, no-one ever paid him any attention. The odd person might wonder about the long absences from his traditional spot now & then, but they probably thought he was travelling, maybe on a street corner in Basra, or elsewhere spreading the word. And indeed that was the truth, except that "elsewhere" was further than they could imagine. "And best not to mention the lengthy vacations in Vegas" he thought to himself.

Baghdad had its attractions though, enough hashish palaces had survived the bombing to keep him occupied in his off-duty hours. And he knew a small group of compliant bellydancers who helped keep him warm in the cold nights. His favourite was a voluptuous woman called Panta, "And by Allah she certainly is at times.", he would muse.

He was here at the behest of his country's allies. While the US had baulked at invading the city & unseating Hussein, they were keen to have someone on the ground, someone unknown & unconnected directly with any American interests, on the lookout for potential insurgent movements. The manic street preacher guise gave him the freedom to travel pretty much unnoticed anywhere he liked. And talk to, or at anyway, a wide range of people.

A jeep full of journalists drove by. "On their way back to their hotel for luchtime gins, I expect." How he wished he could and join them. They had some very good contacts with some of the female aid workers & red Cross nurses... but breaking cover was out of the question.

it looked like it was going to be a long, hot and boring summer.

Just then, a man came running down the street pursued by police. It was his Shi'a contact, code named "The Fez". He'd only met him the week before, the Fez had been looking out for him & had clearly been observing for several days before approaching with the code-phrases.

"Looks like we're in for a snow-storm" said the Fez, guardedly.
"How do you know that's YOUR camel?" replied the preacher.

"Heads up," the man thought, as the Fez ran past, giving him a sideways glance that had desperation written all over it. He reached for his leather bound copy of the Quran, in which was concealed his service revolver, throwing knife, and several thousand dollars of various currencies... "...here's trouble."