by Eric Maddox
The room was crowded with spectators, including six operators from our team and some 4th Infantry Division MPs, backed up against the wall to watch the performance. I figured I had about forty-five minutes to prove Basim was lying about something, anything. And it probably wouldn’t be nearly that long before the chief stepped in if he thought I was trying to humiliate his cousin.
Basim and I sat down at a small table and I started by asking a few simple questions: How was his health? Was he married? How many children did he have? His answers were quick and confident. But he was also guarded. He kept glancing at the cousin, as if to make sure he still had his support.
“How much money did you make driving for Muhammad Ibrahim?” I asked, suddenly changing direction after running through the routine information gathering.
“Four hundred American dollars,” he replied. “But I have not been paid in months. My rent alone is one hundred and fifty dollars and I am three months behind.” I made a mental note of his response. It wasn’t information I’d asked for, but it might come in handy.
The questions and answers continued at a rapid clip. Basim repeated much of the story he had told me previously, emphasizing that since his arrest he was no longer trusted by Muhammad Ibrahim.
I leaned forward. “Basim, we let you go the first time because you said you could help us find Muhammad Ibrahim. Now you’re telling us that he doesn’t trust you. If you can’t help us anymore, why shouldn’t we just arrest you again?”
“Because Muhammad Ibrahim is still in Tikrit,” he replied. “I can help you find him.”
“How do you know he’s in Tikrit?”
“I saw him, with my own eyes, just two days ago.”
This was something new. When I’d questioned Basim eight days earlier, he’d claimed to have not seen his old boss for a month. “Where was he?” I asked
“At the market in the New Oja district. But I don’t know where he went after that.”
“Did he live in New Oja?”
Basim nodded. “Before the war. He had a house there.”
“That’s where you used to pick him up?”
“Sometimes.”
“How far was it from your house to his house?”
He considered. “Perhaps eight kilometers,” he guessed.
“So you saw Muhammad Ibrahim in the New Oja market two days ago?”
“Yes, mister.”
“Why didn’t you report it to us?”
“I have no phone,” he replied. “If you will provide a phone I will call you the next time I see him.”
“Why were you late today?” I asked, trying another angle. “You say you want to help, but you don’t even arrive in time for an important meeting.”
“Because I have no car anymore,” he replied. “My brother is trying to sell it for me in Syria.”
“You were in the New Oja market two days ago,” I reminded him. “How did you get there?”
Basim looked uncomfortable. “I…walked,” he stammered.
I gave a low whistle. “That’s clear across town. It must be sixteen kilometers there and back.”
He nodded nervously.
“So you’re telling me you walked sixteen kilometers to New Oja where you just happened to see Muhammad Ibrahim, but you couldn’t walk the five hundred meters from your house to here?”
He just stared at me. I needed to keep him off-balance now. “How much money are you going to make from selling your car?”
“Twelve hundred dollars.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Pay my rent,” he replied cautiously.
The rent again. I suddenly realized why it had caught my attention the first time he brought it up. I ripped a piece of paper from my notepad, jotted down a note, and put it in my shirt pocket. I made sure that everyone in the room saw what I was doing, specifically Bam Bam.
“Where do you go to pay your rent?” I asked Basim.
“A small store,” he answered. I could see him wondering where this was going. “Down at the intersection.”
“What do they sell at this store?”
“I think it is cement.”
“You think?”
He looked wary. “It is cement.”
“Who runs the store?”
“I do not know, mister.” I could see the fear on his face now, and hear the tremor in his voice.
“Come on, Basim, you’ve lived in Tikrit your whole life. You know everyone and their uncle. Who runs the store?”
A long silence followed. “I think,” he replied in a hoarse whisper, “it is a man named Amir.”
“Amir what?” I shouted.
“Amir Al-Asi,” he replied, staring at the table.
I took out the piece of notepaper and without unfolding it, handed it to Bam Bam. He opened it and glanced back at me with a nod.
“Thamir Al-Asi is an associate of Muhammad Ibrahim and a close friend to Basim Latif,” he read silently. “He runs a cement store with his two sons, Amir and Ahmed.”
My intent had been to let Bam Bam know that I had anticipated where this would be going. In fact, I really hadn’t been sure until the driver started talking about paying his rent. At that point, I put together his story with the accounts I’d been given about Muhammad Ibrahim actually owning the cement store and the house where Basim and his family lived. His landlord was Muhammad Ibrahim, and there was no way Basim could not have known that.
If Basim had admitted up front that he was living, most likely rent free, in a house provided by his former boss, he would have proven where his loyalty lay. But instead he was trying to hide his close connection to the man we were after. Basim had tipped his hand. It was there for everyone, but most importantly Bam Bam, to see.
“Basim,” I continued. “Who really owns your house?”
“I do not know,” he stammered. “I know only Amir. I am trying to help you, mister.” It was apparent that he didn’t want to bring up the name of Thamir Al-Asi and was trying to throw us off the track by only mentioning his son Amir.
The chief stepped forward. “It is time for me to pray,” he said abruptly. He obviously didn’t like the direction the interrogation was taking. In less than an hour, I had established that his cousin was lying about his willingness to work on our side. More important, Basim still had direct ties to Muhammad Ibrahim that he was hiding from everyone, including his uncle.
Bam Bam ordered the 4th Infantry MPs to take Basim into another room. He gestured for me to follow him into the hall. “So what now?” he asked when we were alone.
“Bam Bam,” I said, “I need this guy. And I need him in custody. He’s the key to Muhammad Ibrahim, and Muhammad Ibrahim is the key to Saddam.” It was the first time I’d actually spoken the connection out loud. There was no turning back now. It was all on Bam Bam.
“Eric,” he said, “if we bring this guy in today, you’re going to have to produce some results fast. Either that or you’re going to come to CENTCOM with me to explain to General Abizaid how we got the entire U.S. military on the mayor of Tikrit’s shit list.”
I took that as a yes, we were going to arrest Basim.
We returned to the chief’s office where Bam Bam cut directly to the chase. “Your cousin is not being honest, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry, but he has to come with us.”
“I will take full responsibility for Basim,” was the chief’s rattled reply. “He will be your best source, I guarantee. He will live inside my house and you will have access to him whenever you wish.”
Bam Bam just shook his head. “He lied to you and he lied to us.”
I could see the jaws of the 4th Infantry guys collectively drop. They hadn’t believed for a minute that we would actually take Basim with us. And I could almost see them gleefully anticipating what kind of trouble we were getting ourselves into. But Bam Bam never blinked, and neither did the other shooters. In that moment, I was never more proud to be a part of their team.
But even as we walked back ou
t to the Humvees, I knew that the hard work was just beginning. And Bam Bam confirmed it when he turned to me and said, “Eric, I need whatever targets you get from Basim, asap.”
Chapter 12
THE SPIGOT
1430 01DEC2003
As soon as I got Basim back to the guesthouse, I came down on him fast and furious. I had wanted to start off slower and try to build a rapport. But since he had stuck to his story about only wanting to be a fully cooperative source, he left me no option.
It took me an hour just to convince him that he was no longer considered a friend. From here on out, he was a prisoner and would be treated accordingly. The reasons were simple: he had a past association with a suspected leader of the insurgency, he had provided inaccurate or false answers when questioned by U.S. personnel, and he could potentially put coalition forces in harm’s way if he was released.
His response was to insist that if we held him, he would lose any possibility of regaining Muhammad Ibrahim’s trust. The harder I pushed, the more he dug in his heels. He downplayed his association with his old boss, claiming he was little more than a glorified taxi driver. I think he wanted me to get a picture of him driving Muhammad Ibrahim from behind a glass window, shut off from any contact with his passenger. He had no idea what was going on in the backseat of his own car. If that were true, I pointed out, then Muhammad Ibrahim would have no reason to be concerned that Basim had been arrested. If there was nothing he could tell us that would implicate Muhammad Ibrahim, why would he need to regain his trust?
He didn’t have a good answer for that, so I moved on. My next area of interest was Thamir Al-Asi, the cement store proprietor and Muhammad Ibrahim’s alleged business partner. While I knew that Thamir should be our next hit regardless of what Basim revealed, I didn’t let him know that. Instead I suggested that if Basim would tell us where our target was, we would have no reason to roll up Thamir. If he didn’t, we’d have to move on to the next potential source of intelligence that would lead to Muhammad Ibrahim.
“There is no need to arrest Thamir,” Basim insisted. “He will not know where Muhammad Ibrahim is.”
“Did you ever drive him to Thamir’s house?” I asked.
“Many times.”
“Did he ever stay the night there?”
“Yes.”
“So why wouldn’t he be there now?”
“Since I have been arrested,” he replied, “Muhammad Ibrahim has been in hiding. He thinks I am working for you and that I will tell you everything he does. So now, he will change everything. He will not go back to Thamir Al-Asi’s house again.”
He was giving me another opening and I took it. “He’s going to change everything because you know everything, Basim,” I shot back. “He’s worried because we’ve arrested you. He knows what you could tell us if you wanted to. But you don’t want to, do you, Basim? You’re playing a game with us. You’re wasting my time. I’m going to pick up Thamir because you’ve left me no choice. And you’re going to come with me. That way, everyone will know that you’re working for us. I’ll make sure of that.” I leaned in close. “And I’ll also make sure that you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison.”
Basim’s eyes bounced from my face to the wall and back again. It was finally getting through. He was beginning to understand that his choices had just narrowed drastically.
“You won’t find Muhammad Ibrahim,” he finally said. “He is not in Tikrit anymore.”
“Basim, you told me you saw him in the market a few days ago.”
“It is not true. I did not see him.”
“So,” I said, still inches from his face, “if he’s not in Tikrit, then where is he?”
“I heard he was in Samarra.”
“Why Samarra?”
“So many of his relatives have been arrested here,” Basim explained. “He was fearful they would turn on him.”
“What is Muhammad Ibrahim’s role in the insurgency?”
There was another long silence. Then Basim began to smile. “You really don’t know?” he asked contemptuously.
“I’m asking the questions here, asshole,” I shouted. “Who does Muhammad Ibrahim report to?”
“Who do you think?” he sneered.
“Don’t fuck with me, Basim. Answer the question.”
“He reports to the president,” he said, knowing full well the impact that his statement would have.
I felt my gut lurch. For the first time, I had established a direct link between Muhammad Ibrahim and Saddam. I took a step back and gave Basim a long hard stare. He glared back, as if daring me to call him a liar. The fact was, I believed him. However else the driver was trying to deceive me, there was no reason for him to connect his old boss to Saddam Hussein. We had turned a corner and we both knew it.
“So Muhammad Ibrahim reports to the president,” I repeated as calmly as I could. “Who reports to Muhammad Ibrahim?”
“They all do.” Basim answered as if he could hardly be bothered with such an obvious question.
“Who is ‘they’?” I pressed.
“Everyone,” he replied. “They all work for him.”
“Who does he give orders to? Who sees him face-to-face?”
“Only a few,” Basim replied. “Mostly his brother Radman. He was in charge of Baghdad and Tikrit and places in the west.”
“Radman is dead, Basim. Give me someone who is still breathing.”
I took a deep breath. The information was coming rapidly now. It was as if I had turned on a spigot in Basim’s brain. Once I’d tapped it, the names and places came pouring out and in the next few minutes Basim revealed the primary insurgency leaders in both Fallujah and Samarra. “They are in charge,” he said and I detected a note of pride in his voice, as if he was pleased to know these important men.
“What do you mean in charge?” I asked. “What are they in charge of?”
“All the attacks,” he replied. “They take their orders from Muhammad Ibrahim. Then he pays them.”
“How much?”
Basim’s tone was still arrogant. “I always had a few hundred thousand dollars in my trunk,” he said. “Muhammad Ibrahim would give it out as he needed to.”
I looked at the terp. “Did you get that number right?” I asked.
Jimmy nodded. “Hundreds of thousands of dollars,” he repeated. “He’s talking about U.S. dollars, sir.”
As with bringing up Saddam, Basim was sending me a signal by talking about such huge sums of money. This was serious business being done by serious people with a serious purpose. I was way past the point of interrogating low-level detainees who’d been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. This wasn’t about informants interested only in turning a quick profit. Despite the enormous risk it posed, arresting Basim was the breakthrough I’d been waiting for. I was on the inside now, getting a firsthand look at the insurgency and the men who had ordered the deaths of thousands of Americans and Iraqis.
“Where is Muhammad Ibrahim now?” I asked Basim directly. If he was telling the truth about everything else, maybe he’d give me the answer to the single most important question I had.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “But perhaps I can help you find him.”
“Basim,” I said, heaving an exaggerated sigh. “You’re not going anywhere until Muhammad Ibrahim is sitting where you’re sitting. As soon as you understand that, we can make some progress.”
He looked at me and I could see all the arrogance draining away. The situation had finally sunk in. “I understand,” he said softly.
“Good. Now, where does Muhammad Ibrahim sleep?”
“He was staying at his family farm on the other side of the river after the war.”
“Is he still there?”
He shook his head. “It was raided by the Americans. One of his cousins was captured. He never went back. Since this summer he was always with Thamir Al-Asi and Abu Drees.”
“He slept at the house of Abu Drees?”
“I can
not say for sure. He would have me drop him off in the New Oja neighborhood at night and he would tell me to pick him up the next morning at a market or a tea shop or the cement store that he owned with Thamir Al-Asi. They would play dominoes there.”
“Basim,” I said, locking onto his eyes. “Where do I go to find him now?”
“There is a man,” he replied. “They were working together. His name is Abu Sofian.”
“Who is Abu Sofian?”
“In Samarra he is responsible for every attack and bombing.” I could hear the admiration in his voice. I was impressed myself. Over the past several months, American soldiers were constantly getting lit up in Samarra. It was one of the most dangerous places in the entire country.
“So where does this Abu Sofian live?”
He shook his head. “He is dead, mister. He died a few weeks ago.”
“I told you Basim. I don’t need dead people.”
“Mister, Muhammad Ibrahim thought I was the reason Abu Sofian was killed. He never trusted me after that.”
“So how are you going to gain his trust back, Basim?”
“Mister, I just didn’t want you to arrest me. I have not seen Muhammad Ibrahim since Abu Sofian was killed.”
“Did you get him killed?”
“No. But Muhammad Ibrahim was so angry he needed to blame someone.”
I sat down in front of him, almost knee to knee. “Let’s take this from the top. How many children does Muhammad Ibrahim have?”
“He had a son who is eighteen years old. There are three younger children. And his wife had a baby three months ago.”
This was useful information. Muhammad Ibrahim had family obligations. With so many mouths to feed, he would have to maintain contact in some way to make sure his children were being cared for. “Where does his wife live?” I asked.
“At her father’s house, here in Tikrit. She sent the children to live with relatives.”
“Where in Tikrit does she live?”
He laughed. “In Old Oja,” he replied. “The Americans have barricaded the neighborhood. He feels safe with her there.”
“Does Muhammad Ibrahim come to see her?”
“Mister, I told you. Your soldiers guard it. There is no way he can come. But perhaps they meet somewhere else. Maybe you will find him at his farm. Or…” he paused.
