The bulletproof tires of the black SUV crushed the cracked asphalt of the northern suburbs of Baghdad, raising a cloud of enduring dust.
Inside the vehicle, the air conditioning system operated at full power, yet struggled to dispel the sticky heat wave in Iraq's October afternoon.
Outside the window, the scenery resembled snippets of a war documentary on repeat: the walls of partially collapsed homes riddled with bullet holes, the rusted frames of burnt-out cars on the roadside, and occasionally seen graffiti slogans, in Arabic, proclaiming outdated political messages.
Song Heping leaned back in the leather seat, eyes closed in rest, but Safar knew he wasn't asleep.
"Fifteen billion dollars."
Safar broke twenty minutes of silence as he gently wiped his gilded Colt 1911 pistol with a piece of chamois, as tenderly as if caressing a lover's skin.
