I wanted to say yes. I really did. But I just wasn’t ready. So I thanked Matt for his concern. I would worry about God later. Right now I had to get ready for Abu Khalif.
38
BAGHDAD, IRAQ
Royal Jordanian flight 810 touched down in Baghdad at precisely 8 p.m.
Peering out the window of my first-class seat as we taxied to the main terminal, I could see a squadron of Iraqi military vehicles racing across the tarmac and flanking the jet on either side. I could also see snipers posted on the roofs of the terminal, and tanks on the perimeter of the airfield and surrounding the control tower. Security had been tight ever since the liberation of Iraq by U.S. and allied forces in 2003, but it appeared to have been ramped up significantly in light of the rapidly growing threat ISIS forces now posed to Baghdad and the central government.
I powered up my phone and checked the latest headlines. My story on ISIS had been picked up by media outlets all over the world. Agence France-Presse was quoting an e-mail purportedly from Jamal Ramzy “emphatically denying” that his forces had captured or had possession of chemical weapons. Reuters was citing the Russian foreign minister and an unnamed senior U.N. official saying it “seemed unlikely” and “close to preposterous” that ISIS had WMD, given their joint operation to remove all of the Assad regime’s stockpiles of sarin precursors and other chemical weapons compounds.
Still, a Washington Post editorial, while expressing caution until more facts were known, nevertheless noted, “The assassination of an esteemed former CIA director who was a prime source in the WMD report adds a significant degree of credibility to the Times story.” The editorial added, “U.S. officials should work to confirm the precise nature of ISIS’s capabilities as quickly as possible, given the high stakes. If ISIS really does now have chemical weapons, the next terrorist attack in Washington or elsewhere in the U.S. could result in the deaths of hundreds—perhaps thousands.”
Meanwhile, quite aside from the WMD angle, news of Khachigian’s murder at Union Station was creating a feeding frenzy in Washington. With two more critically wounded victims succumbing to their injuries in the past twenty-four hours, the death toll had risen to thirty-nine. The White House press secretary was being hounded with questions as to whether there was an ISIS sleeper cell—or several—operating in the U.S. He declined to speculate. The FBI was under fire for not releasing such vital information to the public immediately. The director cut short a press conference after saying, “We’re looking into the matter” to twenty-three separate questions. Several members of Congress were calling the administration’s refusal to come clean on the foreign terrorist angle a potential cover-up. Meanwhile, an investigative reporter for ABC News had two sources inside the CIA saying the woman shooter was a Jordanian-American who had traveled to Syria twice in the last eighteen months and had suspected ties to al Qaeda.
As I disembarked the plane and headed into the terminal, I heard someone calling my name.
“Mr. Collins, Mr. Collins, over here.”
The voice was unmistakably that of Hassan Karbouli. I approached the tall man in an ill-fitting suit. The minister of the interior was surrounded by several very nervous-looking bodyguards who, I guessed, didn’t typically do airport pickups. At his side was Ismail Tikriti, the deputy director of Iraqi intelligence.
“Welcome to hell,” Karbouli laughed, vigorously shaking my hand.
No one else laughed, and neither did I.
“Thank you for receiving me, gentlemen,” I replied, acknowledging Ismail as well. “I appreciate your willingness to help me.”
“I hope you’ll forgive us for not giving you an answer sooner,” Karbouli said. “As you no doubt know, we’ve been battling ISIS night and day. I haven’t slept more than three or four hours a night. Ismail here is probably getting less. I think we’re making progress, pushing them back. But I have to tell you, it’s been brutal, especially in Ismail’s hometown.”
The security detail was getting increasingly nervous with us being out among all the other deplaning passengers. At a sign from Karbouli, they quickly whisked us away and led us through a locked door, down several flights of stairs, and along a series of corridors until we reached the airport’s operations center. There they directed us to a small conference room. Karbouli, Ismail, and I entered with a single bodyguard. The rest of the security detail waited outside.
“I’m afraid I cannot stay long,” the interior minister began. “I have a meeting with the prime minister in less than an hour. But I have asked Ismail to take you to see Abu Khalif. Ismail did most of the initial interrogations of Khalif himself. He’ll be a great asset for you. I’m afraid you won’t have much time with Khalif, but it’s the best I can do.”
“How much time?”
“Thirty minutes,” he said.
I wanted more, but I was grateful for whatever I could get and I said so.
“How is the new prime minister?” I asked, knowing that there had been a significant political shakeup in Baghdad since I’d last been in the country.
“Off the record?” Karbouli asked.
“Of course,” I said. I wasn’t planning to write about anything but Abu Khalif on this trip.
“He’s in a bit over his head,” the interior minister replied. “And I say that with all respect for him. I don’t envy the challenges he’s facing.”
“Fending off ISIS?”
“Yes, of course, but it’s more than that. There is a tremendous division inside the cabinet. Some insist the Americans must be invited to come back and help us defend Baghdad and retake the north. Others—including some of the prominent Shias in the government—want to invite Iranian forces to come in to help us.”
“And where are you?”
Karbouli shrugged. “I don’t want to see the Iranians here. But I don’t think your president has the inclination to send forces back here or—to be candid—the stomach to see the battle through even if he did send troops.”
“So what’s your solution?”
“Well, I tell you one thing for certain: the Shias have really fouled things up. They have no idea how to run the country. They have so marginalized us—politically, economically, socially, you name it—that Sunnis all across the country are absolutely furious with the government. I’m furious. So are my fellow Sunnis in the government. All four of us. We have no say, no voice. The Shias have created the perfect conditions for this ISIS surge. There is tremendous sympathy for ISIS right now. Not in Baghdad, of course. And not among the Kurds or the Christians. But in the north, in Anbar to the west, and in certain areas in the south. People are demanding change, and so far the prime minister and his people aren’t listening.”
“I’ve never see you so upset, Hassan,” I said.
“You have no idea,” he replied.
I looked at Ismail. I was dying to know his take. I was certain it was different from Karbouli’s. Ismail, after all, was a Chaldean and a Christian. But he remained expressionless. Whatever his views were, he was an intelligence officer, not a politician. It wasn’t his place to speak his mind—certainly not here and now.
“I’m sorry, but I really need to leave you,” Karbouli said, standing. “But tell me one thing. I’m hearing rumors that the Israelis and the Palestinians are about to sign a final peace treaty. Is this true?”
I was taken aback by the question. I’d thought all this was still a closely guarded secret.
“Wow . . . that would be something,” I demurred. “What else have you heard?”
“I’ve heard from several contacts today,” he said. “They say it’s a done deal, that they’re going to be doing a signing ceremony in Jerusalem. And I hear the Jordanians are the architects of the whole thing. You’re not hearing this as well?”
“I’ve heard some rumors,” I said carefully, not willing to burn my sources. “But I’d say that’s all it is at this moment—just rumors. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
“Perhaps,” he said somewhat cry
ptically, and then he bid me farewell.
39
“Come, we must go too,” Ismail said. “We don’t have much time.”
I followed him out into the hall, where we joined up with the security officers. We exited through a side door into chilly night air. But we were not getting into an armored motorcade. Ismail led me instead to a military helicopter that was already powered up and ready to lift off. Following his lead, I climbed into the back of the Black Hawk, fastened my seat belt, and put on a headset.
“So where are you taking me, Ismail?” I asked over the roar of the rotors as the rest of the detail climbed aboard.
“I’m afraid that’s classified,” he said. “But you’ll see when we get there.”
As we lifted off the ground, the head of security pulled shades down over all the windows. I was facing the rear of the chopper, so I couldn’t even see through the front windshield. Then again, it was well past sundown and the pilots were flying with night-vision gear, so I wouldn’t have seen much anyway.
“May I ask you some questions before we get there?” I asked.
“Ask anything you want,” Ismail said, nodding.
I fished a notepad and pen out of my satchel and got to work. “How long have you had Abu Khalif in custody?” I began.
“Sorry, that’s classified,” he replied.
“Where did you catch him?”
“Classified.”
“What was he charged with?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”
“How many ISIS fighters are being held in Iraqi prisons at the moment?”
Tikriti shook his head.
“That’s classified too?” I asked.
“I’m afraid so,” he said.
“Okay, fine; Karbouli said you did all the initial interrogations of Khalif,” I said, scrounging for something usable. “What can you tell me about him?”
“I’m sorry, J. B. I really can’t say anything.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No, I’m not.”
My irritation was beginning to rise. “I thought you said I could ask you anything.”
“I never said I was cleared to give you answers,” he said.
That was even more irritating. But Ismail wouldn’t budge.
He looked nervous. I wanted to know why. I was sure he wanted to tell me something. But he couldn’t. Perhaps if we were alone, but not now—not with the pilots and security detail listening in. I was beginning to wonder whether the only person I was going to get on the record tonight was Abu Khalif himself.
“So how’s your family?” I asked, desperately searching for something we could talk about. “I hear ISIS forces seized Tikrit. Were your people able to get out all right?”
There was a long, awkward silence. At first I thought he was going to quip, “That’s classified.” But the longer he remained silent, the more worried I became.
“Please tell me they’re okay,” I said.
There was another long pause.
“I’m afraid not,” he finally replied. “They were all wiped out.”
“All of them?” I asked, aghast.
“Only one of my nephews survived. My mother was raped by ISIS terrorists. Then they shot her in the face. My father and three brothers were crucified. ISIS posted their pictures on the Internet along with photos of hundreds of others they had crucified as well.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.
“These people are animals, J. B., savages—driven by Satan himself.”
I was sickened and speechless, barely able to process what he was saying. I had met Ismail’s family years earlier. Ismail had taken me to Tikrit to have lunch with them one day, not long after the liberation of Iraq, and what a sumptuous and festive meal it had been. It was Easter. They were all Chaldean Christians, and this was the first time in their entire lives that they had been able to truly celebrate the death and resurrection of Christ openly and without fear of retribution. They were lovely, joyful people.
Ismail’s father had grown up with Saddam Hussein and had become a high-ranking general in Saddam’s Republican Guard. Because of his connections, the family had been largely immune from the regime’s brutality, and Ismail himself had risen to the rank of colonel in an elite unit that provided protection to Saddam’s family. But when the American mechanized forces rolled into Iraq in the spring of 2003, Ismail and his father defected and began secretly helping the CIA bring down the Butcher of Baghdad. Now Ismail was one of the highest-ranking Christians in the modern Iraqi security forces. He was also one of the most committed to Iraq’s democratization. To think of the price he was having to pay was almost more than I could bear.
“I am so very sorry, Ismail,” I said after a few moments.
The words sounded so lame and so hollow, but I didn’t know what else to say. He nodded but did not respond.
A few minutes later, we began to descend, and my stomach began to churn.
When we finally touched down, the shades went up and the doors on both sides of the Black Hawk whooshed open. Waiting for us were several dozen members of Iraq’s most elite special forces unit in full battle gear. Had they been assigned to guard Khalif 24-7, or were they just here to protect us? There was clearly no point in asking, but I couldn’t help but be curious.
I exited the chopper amid the glare of enormous stadium lights, but once my eyes adjusted, a chill ran down my spine. I knew exactly where I was, for I’d been here before.
We were in the central courtyard of Iraq’s most notorious prison: Abu Ghraib.
It was a sprawling facility covering the better part of an acre on the outskirts of Baghdad. It had once housed more than fifteen thousand inmates, from murderers and rapists to full-fledged jihadists. Until April 2004, most Americans had never heard of Abu Ghraib, nor had most people in the world. Then 60 Minutes broke the story of the terrible abuses taking place at the prison and revealed the most horrific pictures of American soldiers smiling beside piles of naked Arab prisoners. There were photos of U.S. soldiers beating—or pretending to beat—prisoners, and photos of our troops engaging in all manner of other terrible and offensive behaviors, effectively torturing and humiliating the prisoners in complete dereliction of their military codes of conduct, the Geneva Convention, and common moral sense.
It was a story I should have broken to the world myself, but I admit I was late to understand the gravity of the rumors I’d been hearing for months. The American public was indignant, and rightfully so, when they saw and heard the reports. So was the rest of the world. But the Islamic world—and especially the Iraqi people, many of whom had initially seen the Americans as liberators—were enraged. As news of the atrocities spread, only the jihadists were overjoyed. A handful of American traitors—that’s how I saw them, anyway—had given extremists like al Qaeda and later ISIS the ultimate recruiting and fund-raising tool.
“I thought you closed this place,” I shouted, since the chopper was only just winding down.
“For a while, we did,” Ismail replied. “But we needed the space, so we opened it again not long ago, but only for the most dangerous of prisoners.”
“How many is that?”
“I’m sorry, J. B.; that’s classified.”
“Come on, just give me a hint so I’m not too far off the mark in my story.”
“Absolutely not,” Ismail responded. “Please don’t ask me again. You can say in your article that you interviewed Khalif in a prison in Iraq, but you cannot provide any other details. Are we clear?”
I shrugged, but he grabbed me by the shoulders and looked straight into my eyes. “Are we clear?” he repeated. “If not, we can power the chopper up and get you back to Baghdad right now.”
“Yeah,” I quickly conceded. “We’re clear.”
There was no point blowing the interview over details.
40
Ismail led me into the prison.
He introduced me to the warden, and together the thr
ee of us walked down one long filthy corridor after another until they ushered me through a steel door into an interrogation room.
The room wasn’t small, but it wasn’t large, either—maybe thirty feet by twenty feet. It was made of concrete, with a second steel door directly across from the one I had entered through. There was a two-way mirror in the wall to my right, a steel table in the middle that was bolted to the floor, and two steel chairs, also bolted to the floor, neither with any padding or cushion, facing each other across the table. Two soldiers bearing submachine guns entered behind me and took up positions in the two corners of the room at my back. Then Ismail and the warden brought in metal folding chairs, which they set beside me.
My heart began to pound. I was about to be face to face with a psychopathic killer. This was the most important interview of my life, but suddenly I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there at all.
“Remember, you have only thirty minutes,” Ismail said. “Not a second more.”
I turned and glanced at the wall behind me, where I could see two small video cameras mounted high above the door, each with a red light on to indicate that they were live and recording everything we said and did here.
Just then, the steel door across the room opened, and four guards brought in a man in handcuffs and leg irons and wearing an orange prison jumpsuit. He looked like a cross between Khalid Sheikh Mohammed and Charles Manson. He had a long face and an angular nose that looked like it had been broken several times, and he sported a bushy gray mustache and a wild, unkempt black-and-gray beard. He had the beginnings of male pattern baldness that spread from his forehead to the top of his scalp, but behind that he had rather long hair, a dirty brownish gray, tied in a ponytail held together by a pale-red rubber band. His arms were clean of any tattoos, but I immediately noticed that there were large, jagged scars on his hands and forearms. That said, it was his dark-brown eyes that any normal person would notice first, for they were sunken with rings around them as if he got very little sleep, and the moment they locked onto mine, the hair on the back of my neck literally stood erect.
The Third Target: A J. B. Collins Novel Page 22
