Darrar al-Ghoury
That Sari fellow was a blue jinn, God damn him. The type who wouldn’t let anything stop him from getting what he wanted.
He managed to arrange my exit via the Jordanian-Iraqi border, in a pick-up driven by a silent man wearing black glasses that covered nearly half his face. He dropped me off in the city of Ar Rutba and got back in his car without my seeing his face or knowing who he was.
I got to Baghdad and headed to a café on Al-Rashid Street. It was a blistering hot day and the smell of tobacco mingled with the smell of grilled meat and the foul odor of raw chicken from the neighboring shops.
I looked around at the people sitting on the wooden chairs and noticed a man sitting behind a round worktable. He had a brown file placed in front of him and a set of brown pr
