“What’s happening!?’ He came up behind me, asking with his Cheshire Cat grin. It was Baghdad, Iraq, 2003, on a hot, dusty rooftop overlooking Saddam Hussein’s just-conquered capital, and I never expected to see New York’s ex-top cop.
But there he was, Bernie Kerik, hatless, his famous mustache topping his jutting chin, muscular arms filling his short-sleeved khaki shirt.
