Mohammed returned tonight, about 5 hours after we first got word of his capture.  He showed up at the office, dirty, tired and scratched up, but otherwise fine.  Everyone kissed his cheeks and said al ham du lilah salama, and then we sat down in the reception area for him to tell the tale ...

They took him in a separate car to a rural area and held him in a barn.  There the men said they were "mujahadeen, and we need money".  They told him he was a traitor for working with Americans, and they would torture him.  They asked him all kinds of questions, but he lied about the important details – company name, location, salary, everything that could be traced back to us.  Then they injected him with something which they apparently thought would make him sleep.

Mohammed pretended to sleep after a few minutes, and they moved him to a vehicle.  A voice said "I'm sorry my friend, but we're taking you somewhere else now".  They tied his hands with a head scarf and blindfolded him, and the car moved off.  After a few minutes, Mohammed worked his hands free and removed the blindfold.  He realized he was in the back seat of the car, with only the driver up front.  He jumped up and hit the driver in the back of the head, driving his face into the steering wheel.  Then he reached forward, took the Kalishnikov beside him, and hit the man in the back of the head with the butt of the rifle.  He beat him to death - until his head split, until his skull was crushed.  Then he dove from the car.

This is where Mohammed got the scratches, it seems.  Rolling in the road.  He flagged down a passing trucker, who helped him to a police checkpoint.  The police put him in a taxi back to Baghdad.

Mohammed is luckier than many, and braver than most.  He was lucky his captors were rank amateurs.  He was lucky he escaped before he could be transferred into the hands of more capable insurgents.  He was brave enough to make his move when he saw it, and willing to do what he had to do to ensure his escape.

I don't know if I have it in me to do what he did.  But I know I don't feel one bit sorry for the son of a bitch he killed.  And I don't think we'll need to worry about anyone come looking for fassel.

I'm shaking, just telling the story.  This isn't some adolescent fantasy about revenge or righteous comeuppance.  This really happened, to someone I know.  To someone I am responsible for.  To someone I truly care about, and like, and drink beer with (he's not a good Muslim).

The waiting is over.