The heat hadn’t let up, so baked was the earth, but the burning sun and the threat of sunstroke at least wouldn’t trouble the men for a few hours. Even the flies had gone. They were replaced by clouds of mosquitoes. Then, around 2 a.m. the moon rose and a pale, silvery light spread out across the surrounding floods like a glistening white fire. Lock had arranged for the local sheikh of the nearby Marsh Arabs to meet with him at the sight of an old ford, just north of the boat bridge where the marsh and the sand dunes ran down to the water. The ford was used by the Marsh Arabs to cross their livestock over the Tigris during the dry season, when the river was less treacherous and flooded. Right now, the dark waters were flowing by at a terrific speed. Above the roaring, inky blackness, Lock, jacketless with his sleeves rolled up, was deep in conversation with a gesticulating Arab. He was a tall, painfully thin man, barefoot, dressed in a long, ragged shirt open at the chest, which revealed the dark-brown skin taut over his ribcage.
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