As I crossed the suspension bridge I couldn't help another little smile. We'd been here earlier today with our ever-enthusiastic guide. Baltasar was a squat, energetic little man with an enormous moustache. He kept twirling the tips as if they were waxed, but they weren't. Seconds after each twirl, the whole arrangement would collapse again in the heat.

He was so devoted to his mother-country that he claimed just about everything you could think of originated from here. Even Jesus spoke Syriac – which was probably the only fact he'd given us that was actually true. As we'd gazed out across the mighty waters he'd told us the Euphrates featured strongly in the prophecies of the Book of Revelation. 'Where it is written that the river will be one of the scenes of Armageddon…' He'd raised his hands to the skies like a prophet. 'The sixth angel poured out his bowl on the great river Euphrates, and its water was dried up to prepare the way for the kings from the east.'

Tonight it wasn't going to be kings coming from the east. It was going to be loud bolts of thunder roaring in from the west, in the form of seven F-15 fighter jets armed with AGM-65 Maverick missiles and 500-pound bombs.

The hotel lay a block beyond the far bank. The rectangular concrete monolith had had a few licks of green paint and a bit of a dig-out to cater for the tourists, but that was about it. The air-conditioning, like Baltasar's take on history, was beyond repair.

The security guard at the front door had a blue sweater on over his blue overalls. There wasn't as much as one drop of sweat on his ancient face. I went into the lobby. The small bar area and a couple of soon-to-be-threadbare sofas were taken up by faces from our Road to Damascus tour. I hadn't bothered to find out all their names. Baltasar was at the centre of the group.