by Eric Maddox
Several key pieces of information had come together to point me in the direction of Thamir Al-Asi. He was the same friend of Muhammad Ibrahim whose name I first heard from the son of Abu Drees. Thamir and his own two sons, Amir and Ahmed, ran a small cement store in Tikrit. Muhammad Ibrahim had occasionally dropped by to play dominoes. From my interrogations of Abu Drees and his sons, I discovered that Thamir was more than just a friend. He actually served as the proprietor for properties that he owned jointly with Muhammad Ibrahim, including the cement store. Several nearby residences were also part of Thamir Al-Asi and Muhammad Ibrahim’s extensive real estate holdings. More interesting still was the fact that he apparently owned the house where his former driver Basim Latif lived. The network of Al-Muslit associates and beneficiaries was now coming clear. Muhammad Ibrahim had three cronies, Abu Drees, Basim Latif, and Thamir Al-Asi. I had learned of their existence from my interrogation of Baby Radman and they had since made a quick move up our link diagram.
More valuable intelligence surfaced in mid-November when Shakir, who along with Abu Qasar was one of Farris Yasin’s closest associates, turned himself in to the local police. I immediately interrogated him and he proved to be a very informative subject. At first he refused to admit any connection to Farris Yasin or to have any knowledge of his activities. But after several intense hours I was finally able to break him down. He then went on to detail for me the authority structure that held the Al-Muslit operation together.
“I was working for Farris, and Farris was working for Radman,” he explained. “I never saw Radman. Only Farris, I swear.”
“And who does Radman work for?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. But I heard it was for his brother, Muhammad Ibrahim.”
“When was the last time you saw Muhammad Ibrahim?”
“It has been many months. Since before the war.”
“Are you a friend of his?”
He laughed, as if the idea was absurd. “I was friends with Farris,” he replied. “I knew Radman a little. But Muhammad Ibrahim is different.”
“How different?”
“Mister, aside from Abid Mahmood, his personal secretary, there was no one Saddam trusted more that Muhammad Ibrahim.”
It was exactly what I wanted to hear. Everything we’d done since I’d arrived in Tikrit—focusing on the bodyguards, tracking down the Al-Muslits, constructing a link diagram one suspect at a time—all came down to a single goal: finding Saddam. Shakir’s information was another vital part of the puzzle.
The problem was, I was running out of time. My tour of duty was coming to an end and I was scheduled to return to the States no later than December 15. With the out-processing factored in, that meant I had about three weeks left in Tikrit to get the job done.
To me the next step was obvious. I had to talk to Basim Latif, who had been identified by both Baby Radman and the son of Abu Drees as Muhammad Ibrahim’s driver and close friend. I wanted to get him as soon as possible. But that was easier said than done.
“We already hit the helicopter guy,” Kelly protested when I brought up the subject of bringing in Basim. “We’re probably not going to get approved for another nobody.”
“Basim isn’t a nobody, Kelly,” I replied. “He could take us to Muhammad Ibrahim. And Muhammad Ibrahim could lead us to…” I paused. The last thing I wanted was to create expectations I couldn’t fulfill.
“Look, Eric,” Kelly said with an exasperated sigh. “I told you. We have to move up the ladder. Basim Latif, Abu Drees and whoever else hung out with Muhammad Ibrahim are all sideways targets. If we’re going after Muhammad Ibrahim, let’s focus on him. He’s our next move.”
Now it was my turn to be exasperated. “If Muhammad Ibrahim is our next move, then we don’t have a next move. I don’t know where he is and I don’t know how to find him. Basim can tell us. He knows where to find him. We have to bring him in.”
It was a hard sell. Nobody else grasped the potential importance of Basim. I had already found that out through my connections with the 4th ID’s tactical HUMINT teams and the 4th ID military police battalion. Part of their job was to keep tabs on the actions of low-level thugs and insurgents throughout Tikrit. They had compiled long lists of names, often followed by a one-or two-word description of the suspected activity: IED maker, financier, etc. I had been looking through these pages one afternoon when I came across Basim Latif’s name. “Cousin of Chief” was the notation that followed it. Basim, it turned out, was the nephew of the powerful chief of security for the governor of Tikrit.
“What do you know about this Basim Latif?” I asked the MP lieutenant.
He shrugged. “I’m not sure,” he said. “He was arrested by the local police. His uncle arranged to get him out of prison if he would become a source for us.”
“Are you getting information from him?”
“We haven’t talked to him yet. The battalion commander has been working to maintain a good relationship with the chief. This may have just been a way for us to do him a favor.”
“Listen,” I replied. “You’d be doing me a favor if you can arrange for Basim to come in so I can talk to him.”
Three weeks after his arrest, Basim Latif was suddenly on our side. And that was going to make it even harder to get what I needed out of him. As a source working for us, Basim would have no incentive to reveal what he knew. For that to happen he would have to be a prisoner with the threat of open-ended incarceration hanging over his head. That was my primary reason for wanting him to be in my custody. But it was a sensitive situation. There was no way I could just arrest a close family member of the governor’s security chief. As the lieutenant had told me, the brass at the 4th ID had spent a lot of time building an alliance with the governor of Tikrit. They were not about to allow that relationship to be compromised.
I could understand why. The governor of Tikrit was just about the only Sunni friend we had in the whole Sunni Triangle. Pissing him off could conceivably lead to complaints passed up the line to the highest military and political levels. My only option was to talk with Basim on his terms and hope I could work around his built-in immunity. Since the head of the 4th ID’s military police had a special relationship with the Tikrit officials, my meeting with Basim would have to be arranged by them. The commanding officer agreed on the condition that the interview took place at the military police headquarters and under no circumstance would we be allowed to arrest the driver.
Basim might have been about forty-five, but the desert sun had aged him at least ten years. Several more years, and a few pounds, had been added by hard drinking. He seemed happy to help and anxious to please, knowing that he needed to appear to be in full compliance with the arrangement his uncle had worked out. But he wasn’t about to give up any useful information about his former employer.
“Why were you arrested, Basim?” I asked, trying my best to come off as friendly.
“I used to be Muhammad Ibrahim’s driver,” he replied. “You are looking for Muhammad Ibrahim. The police thought I could be of help.”
“Can you?”
He shrugged, smiling serenely.
“How long were you his driver?”
“For two years.”
“Did you see him every day?”
“Not every day.”
“Did you drive for him after the war?”
“Yes, I was still his driver.”
“Are you still his driver now?”
“I have not seen him for a month.”
“But you’re still his driver.”
Basim spoke slowly, as if he was explaining the facts to a child. “I was arrested,” he said. “Then I was released. He no longer trusts me. He thinks I am a spy for the Americans.”
“Are you a spy?”
“Yes. I swore to my cousin that I would do everything I could to help you.”
“So help us.”
He smirked. “How can I help?”
“Where did you last see Muhammad Ibrahim?”
“I was walking down the street. I saw him drive by in a car.”
“Why weren’t you driving him?”
He sighed. “I told you, mister. He no longer trusts me.”
“Where is Muhammad Ibrahim now?” “I don’t know. I will try to help you find him.”
“How will you do that?”
“I will lay low for a while until he starts to trust me again. Then they will come to me.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“Muhammad Ibrahim has many people.”
“Who are the ones closest to him?”
“Abu Drees.”
“Anyone else?”
Basim shrugged again. The fact that he had named Abu Drees wasn’t surprising. He must have known that we had arrested him and there was no downside to implicating the old man. What was revealing was the fact that Basim hadn’t mentioned Thamir Al-Asi or his two sons. If he was really committed to cooperating with us, he would have offered up anyone and everyone he could think of who was a friend or associate of his former boss.
“Will these people help you find Muhammad Ibrahim?”
He nodded. “They will take me to him. Then he will look me in the eye and decide if he trusts me.”
Basim was not the first to tell me that an Iraqi could stare eyeball-to-eyeball and decide whether someone was loyal. I didn’t have that ability, but I didn’t need it to know that Basim had no intention of helping us find Muhammad Ibrahim. As long as he had the protection of the cousin, the chief of security, there was no incentive for him to cooperate. Maybe he was still involved with his old boss or maybe not. All he had to do now was lie low and see which side, the Americans or the insurgency, best served his interests.
As soon as I was finished questioning Basim Latif, I took Kelly aside. “We need to arrest that guy,” I told him with absolute conviction. “He’s lying through his teeth. I need an honest Basim and I’m not going to get that until he’s scared. Really scared.”
“You are going to have to sell it to Bam Bam,” Kelly said and together we went looking for him.
We found him in the dining room. Sitting down at the table, the three of us discussed the available options. I ran down what I had heard from Basim, what he claimed to know, and what I thought he was concealing from us. I wanted to make sure that Bam Bam understood the connection between Abu Drees, Basim Latif, and Thamir Al-Asi. They were the three men closest to Muhammad Ibrahim. They all knew each other and, between them, I was sure that we would be able to track down our primary target.
Basim was the next logical step, but we all knew that by arresting the driver, Bam Bam would be taking a huge risk. It was ultimately his ass on the line and he’d have to take the heat for any political shit that hit the fan as a result. But at the same time, both he and Kelly knew that I might be onto something big. The fact that we never mentioned Saddam by name didn’t mean we weren’t all thinking of the possibility of his capture. It was that unspoken but very real potential that was being weighed in the balance.
“What do you want me to do, Eric?” Bam Bam asked, cutting to the chase.
I thought for a moment. “I want you to listen to Basim when I question him,” I said, slowly and deliberately. “I’ve told you what I think he knows. If you don’t agree that he’s lying or holding back information, then I’ll stop asking you to arrest him. But if you think I’m right, then we need to take him into custody and treat him like any other prisoner.”
“What’s he going to lie about?” Kelly asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “But I’ll get him to do it and when he does, you’ll know he’s holding back. I guarantee it.”
“Listen, Eric,” Bam Bam said, and his tone of voice got my full attention. “This is going to draw more attention to us than we ever wanted. And it can blow up in our faces. We’re supposed to be leaving this country someday and when that happens we’re going to turn it over to our allies. Right now, one of those allies is the governor of Tikrit. He’s more important in Washington and Baghdad than you or I will ever be.”
We sat in silence for what seemed like a long time. “So what do you want to do, Bam Bam?” Kelly finally asked.
He looked at me and I could see in his eyes the weight of the decision he had to make. “Let’s go talk to this son-of-a-bitch, Basim,” he said.
It would be a few days before the 4th ID could arrange the meeting. I spent Thanksgiving with Bam Bam, Kelly, and the terps. The rest of the shooters had been called to Baghdad to serve as a personal security detachment for President Bush, who had come to Iraq for a holiday morale boost.
It might seem like that Thanksgiving was a lonely interlude in a hostile country a long way from home. But instead it was an opportunity for me to reflect on everything I had experienced over the last several months. In that period of time I had become completely engrossed in my work. I realized I had no real idea what was going on in the rest of Iraq or, for that matter, back in the States. About the only connection I maintained to my former life was the Sooners. I needed them to win more than ever. There was a relief in watching those games in the late hours of a Saturday night, seeing all those joyful, innocent fans fill a stadium and basking in the pride of the Sooners. The fact that they were dismantling the competition was an added bonus. For a few hours I was able to escape from the tensions and anger and deception that I dealt with every day.
I called my wife and children as often as I could. But there was something about hearing their voices so far away that made me understand that I wasn’t really doing all this for them. I needed this war and I needed to be a part of it for my own selfish reasons. The bottom line was that I’d signed up to be a warrior. Soldiers are happiest when they are fighting. Rebuilding a country was a noble goal, but the real reason we were there was to destroy the enemy.
That Thanksgiving night, I found myself thinking about my friend Casey again. I pictured him sitting at that bar in heaven with the other heroes in my life. They were warriors, too, and I was still trying to earn my place next to them.
It was on December 1, with the clock still ticking on my tour of duty, that I finally got word I would have another chance to question Basim Latif. Not only would Bam Bam and Kelly be present, but the entire team was going to show up for the session. It was scheduled to be held at the offices of the mayor of Tikrit, housed in a large three-story office building.
While the shooters had occasionally dropped by the guesthouse to watch my interrogations in the past, this was something different. It was as if, without a word being said, they all understood how much was riding on my confrontation with Basim. They wanted to be there when it went down. Despite the fact that I would now have an audience, I felt strangely calm. We were in this together, from Bam Bam to the most junior operator. Any success that might come from what was about to happen would be a success we would all share.
The streets of Tikrit were empty as we rode to the mayor’s mansion. It was a quick trip out of the wire and I had one last opportunity to think about what I needed to do: convince Bam Bam to arrest a well-connected and seemingly innocent citizen of Tikrit.
I reviewed the facts in my head. Basim Latif was the former driver of Muhammad Ibrahim, the next link in the long chain of Al-Muslit bodyguards I’d assembled on the link diagram. I was pretty sure Basim could take us to his old boss if I could get him to open up. Then Muhammad Ibrahim, a trusted adviser of Saddam, might be able to take us to his old boss.
But Basim was also the cousin of one of Tikrit’s top-ranking security chiefs. His responsibility was to guard the Sunni governor of the city. By supporting the Americans, the governor had made himself a prime insurgent target. The fact that he was even still alive was proof that his security chief was a powerful man. If he didn’t want his cousin arrested, he could make real trouble for us.
What we were about to do was risky in all kinds of ways. I ran down the worst-case scenario in my mind as we made our way through town. If Bam Bam actually authorized the ar
rest of Basim, he’d be putting his career on the line. But I also knew that bringing in Basim was our best shot at getting one step closer to Saddam. Without Basim, I’d come to a dead end.
I wiped my forehead with the sleeve of my blue oxford shirt, the one I’d been wearing on and off between T-shirts for over four months now. We had reached the barbed wire perimeter of the mayor’s office, patrolled by local police and Iraqi military, as well as U.S. troops. They immediately escorted us through a maze of hallways to the security chief’s office. As we arrived at the heavy wooden door, I glanced over at Bam Bam. I knew he still hadn’t made up his mind whether or not to arrest Basim. He would weigh his options as they unfolded.
The chief was a supremely self-confident officer, well groomed with a crisp, clean uniform. He was polite, even soft-spoken. Regardless of what was at stake, this was all going to be very courteous and respectful.
“My cousin is not here at the moment,” he said as we entered. “My men will bring him.” Then he started with his version of the speech I’d heard delivered so many times before by Iraqis to Americans. “I want you to know how pleased I am that we have been able to support you and your mission to make Iraq a safe and free country. We are working as brothers to complete this mission. I am sure my cousin Basim will be a very valuable asset to you.”
Bam Bam didn’t miss a beat. “Chief, if Basim is being completely honest, there will be no problem.”
“I can assure you my cousin will be honest with you,” the chief replied. “I give you my word. In turn, I would like your assurance that you will not take Basim with you.”
“If he’s telling the truth, that won’t be a problem,” Bam Bam repeated.
“As I said, you have my word.” The chief was clearly prepared to stand up for his cousin. This could get ugly.
The door opened again and Basim was escorted in. He seemed in good spirits and exchanged the traditional kisses on the cheek with his older cousin. Then he turned to us with a sly smile. Bam Bam caught my eye and gave me an unmistakable cue: it was showtime.
