”“What about the Iranians? Are they working for the Iranians?” asked Wolfowitz.“Uh, bin Laden is Sunni and the Iranians are Shiites. They wouldn’t be working together. More like they’d be targeting each other.”Nobody paid him any attention after that. I was astonished that these geniuses didn’t even know the religions of the people they were planning to invade. It didn’t matter to them. We would invade in another lightning campaign, destroying the Iraqi Army in a matter of days, roll into Baghdad, occupy the palace, and capture Hussein. It might take two weeks, tops. The locals, elated after years of oppression under the boot heel of the dictator (I heard that phrase used) would rise up and welcome us with open arms. Within a matter of months there would be free elections and our hand-picked candidates would take over, and in their gratitude, would allow American oil companies first crack at all that Iraqi oil. It might cost us a few hundred billion, but the oil would pay for it. Even. Huge blue-black bruises spread across my torso like thunderclouds. My throat was unbearably scratchy. There was a persistent ringing in my right ear. But I was alive.I looked to the right. On a chair in the corner of the room, a red-haired nurse was reading a gossip magazine.She caught the fractional movement of my left arm and rose to her feet quickly. “Shalom. Let me call the doctor.” She leaned over me, pressing a button above my head.I heard a door open, and the balding doctor walked into my line of sight. “Welcome back,” he smiled. “Do you remember our signals?”It took several seconds to remember. Then I blinked twice.“Good.” He checked some readouts above me. “You were in surgery for a little under an hour. There were some complications, but you’re doing fine. Nothing we couldn’t handle.”I moved my left hand up slowly, pointing to the trache. “That’s got to stay for now.” His voice held a businesslike note of apology. “Lungs are still clearing; you can’t breathe by yourself.
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