“Ya Bassam! Marhaba,” Ferris greeted his agent. He slumped into the front seat and rolled up the window. The Iraqi was wearing a cheap leather jacket, and he had his hair slicked back with gel.
“How are you, man?” said Bassam. “Are you cool?” He liked American street talk, even though Ferris told him it was insecure. It reminded him of home, in Dearborn. But it wasn’t just that. Bassam had a twinkle in his eye today, as if he were dying to tell Ferris something.
“I’m okay,” said Ferris. “It’s good to be out of there. I get sick of Balad. Too many crazy Americans. I’m ready for some crazy Iraqis.”
“Well, boss, I have someone very crazy for you today. This one you are not going to believe. Really, man. He’s too much.” Bassam was sounding like a DJ in his excitement.
“What have you got?” said Ferris.
“The real thing, man. An Al Qaeda guy, from up near Tikrit. I knew him when I was a kid, before I left. His name is Nizar. He wanted to come to America but he couldn’t get the papers, so he worked in Saddam’s Moukhabarat. He got all messed up in the head after liberation, you know, like a lot of those Tikritis, and he started working with Zarqawi. At least that’s what he says. He’s scared shitless now, man.”
Ferris’s eyes were alight. He pulled the kaffiyeh a little tighter, so people in nearby cars couldn’t see his face. This was what he had been waiting for these past three months, if it was true. “How did you find this guy, Bassam?”
“He found me, man. He’s terrified the bad guys are going to kill him. He was supposed to do a martyrdom operation, but he got scared. He knows a lot of shit. He wants us to help him—you know, get him out of here.”
“Oh, fuck.” Ferris shook his head. “You didn’t tell him you’re working for Uncle Sugar, did you?”
“No way, man. I’m not dumb. No, he came to me just because I used to live in the States, that’s all. He thinks I can fix shit for him. I told him I’d see what I could do. He’s up at my uncle’s house, between here and Tikrit. I told him we’d come see him today.”
Ferris looked at his hip-hop Iraqi agent. “You are the real deal, Bassam. You know that? I’m proud of you.”
THEY DROVE with the morning traffic up Highway 1, the main route north that followed the banks of the Tigris toward Tikrit. U.S. supply convoys rumbled past, and like all the Iraqis, Bassam slowed down to let the trigger-happy American soldiers pass. That would be the worst, thought Ferris, to get blown away by some reserve NCO from Nebraska who was riding shotgun for an armed convoy bringing steaks and soda pop to the troops up north. Bassam was playing Radio Sawa, an American station that mixed American and Arab music and was the one real propaganda success the United States had achieved. He was rapping along with an Eminem song when Ferris broke in.
“We have to be careful, Bassam. If this guy is as good as you say, they are going to kill him as soon as they find he’s on the lam. You have to get real serious about tradecraft now, brother. You hear me?”
“Yes, boss. I’m cool.”
“No, you are not cool. You’re going to get us killed, along with your pal Nizar. So pay attention. We have to move around, starting tonight. I can’t stay in the same place twice this week, and neither can you. If your man Nizar checks out, he’s solid gold. We’re not going to get him killed with sloppy shit. We don’t get chances like this very often, and I’m not going to blow it. You hear me? Huh? You fucking hear me?”
“Yes, boss,” Bassam said again. But Ferris knew that he understood.
BASSAM’S UNCLE lived down a long dirt road near Ad-Dawr, a few miles south of Tikrit. It had once been a farm; you could still see the irrigation equipment, but now the fields were a mess of tangled weeds and derelict equipment. Ferris told Bassam to park the car behind the main house so it couldn’t be seen from the road. A smaller house stood under a eucalyptus tree about fifty yards from the main villa. Bassam said it was empty. Ferris told him to bring Nizar over to the smaller house, and not mention to his uncle or anyone else that Ferris was here. Bassam gave him a wink, trying to look cocky, but Ferris could tell that he was scared.
Ferris let himself in the little house. It stank of shit, animal or human he couldn’t tell. It was a coarse fact of Iraqi life that people took a dump in almost any space that was unoccupied. He opened the windows to air the place out, set up the chairs so he could talk to Nizar without being seen. And then he sat and waited.
Bassam arrived ten minutes later with Nizar in tow, talking an Arabic version of the singsong patois he adopted in English. Nizar was a short man, built like a fireplug, with a big moustache that drooped over his lips. Ferris didn’t understand all the Iraqi slang, but he could tell that Nizar was nervous. There was a tremor in his voice, even talking to Bassam, and his eyes darted back and forth, scanning the horizon for the danger he knew was out there. When he entered the little house, he peered at Ferris, trying to make out his face in the shadows.
“This is my Egyptian friend,” said Bassam, pointing to Ferris. “Maybe he can help you.”
They exchanged Islamic pleasantries. Peace be with you; God grant you health. Bassam had brought a bottle of water with him from his uncle’s house, and he poured it out ceremoniously into three dirty glasses. It took a while to get started, but it was always a mistake to rush anything in this part of the world.
“I can help you, my friend,” said Ferris in his Egyptian-accented Arabic.
“Thanks God,” said Nizar.
“But why do you need help? What are you afraid of?”
“I know too many things, sir. I have traveled with Abu Musab. I know his secrets. They trusted me. They were going to send me outside Iraq. They prepared me. But then a few days ago they said sorry, they needed me for a martyrdom operation in Baghdad. I think they did not trust me anymore. I don’t know why. Rumors, maybe. They hear that I know Bassam, maybe. That was when I ran away. They have too many martyrs. I don’t want to die. I want to go to America.”
“I can help,” repeated Ferris. “I know people who can get you to the United States. Money, a visa, a green card. Everything. But you know the Americans. They are greedy. You must give them something, or they will never help you. So what can you give them? You tell me, and then I will know if I can help you.”
Nizar shook his head. “It is too dangerous,” he said. “I will tell only the Americans. I cannot trust the Arabs. They will betray me.”
Ferris thought a moment. Everything the man had said so far sounded rational. And he was right to think that he could not trust Arabs. The pitch would have to come from an American. Ferris knew that revealing himself as an American this early was a violation of his ops plan, but he couldn’t think of any other way to make it work. He leaned forward in his chair so that his face was in the full sunlight, and took off his kaffiyeh so that Nizar could see his features
“I am an American, Nizar. I work for the National Security Council,” Ferris said in English, and then he repeated it in Arabic. “I can help you to get to America, but you must tell me what you know. Then we can make a good plan.”
Nizar studied Ferris’s face, trying to make up his mind. Then he did the one thing Ferris didn’t expect. He fell to the floor and kissed Ferris’s hand. There were tears in his eyes. That’s how scared he was that Zarqawi’s people were going to kill him.
“Tell me what you know,” said Ferris, slowly and evenly. “Then I can help you. Tell me the thing that will make my big boss back in Washington, the president, most happy.”
Nizar closed his eyes. He knew what it was. This was the only card he had to play. Ferris reached out his hand and touched the Iraqi man on the forehead, as if he were healing him. He’d never done that before with anyone in his life, but in the moment, it felt right.
“They wanted me to leave Iraq,” said Nizar.
“Yes,” said Ferris. “You told me that. Why did they want you to leave Iraq?”
“Because of my training, with the Moukhabarat. I know how to make bombs. I know how
to run operations. I have all the training. They said they needed it, for the operations in Europe. The car bombs. That is their plan, for car bombs in Europe, just like Baghdad. But they do not have enough people. They needed me.” He stopped, frightened to continue.
“Who needed you?” Ferris looked him in the eyes and then repeated it. “Who needed you, Nizar? Tell me, or I will leave now.”
“The man who runs Al Qaeda’s new network. The one who is planning the bombings in Europe. The one who frightens the Americans the most. The people here are in touch with him. They wanted to send me to him.”
“And who is that?”
Nizar fell silent again. He sat there, shaking his head—terrified and uncertain what to do.
Ferris sensed he might lose him if he didn’t act quickly. He rose from his chair, as if ready to walk out. “Come on, Bassam,” he said. “We’re leaving.”
Nizar said a word, but his voice was barely audible.
“Speak up,” said Ferris.
“Suleiman,” he whispered. “That is not his real name, but that is the name they give him. Suleiman the Magnificent. He is the planner.”
Oh my God, thought Ferris. This is it. How are we going to keep this guy alive?
4
BALAD, IRAQ
FERRIS CALLED ED HOFFMAN ON his satellite phone from the derelict house near the Tigris. It would be four in the morning back in Washington, but that didn’t matter. Hoffman would be furious if he hadn’t been awakened, when he found out what Ferris had. He routed the call through the NE Division ops center. The watch officer sounded peeved, as if he had been interrupted from the solitaire game on his computer. But he put the call through to Hoffman at home.
“What the fuck?” were Hoffman’s first words. And then: “What time is it?”
“Sorry to wake you up,” said Ferris. “But I think we may have found the real thing out here in Dodge City.”
“Oh yeah?” said Hoffman, now fully awake. “What have you got?”
“I am debriefing an Iraqi walk-in. He’s a Sunni from Samara who used to work for Saddam’s intelligence service. He’s part of Al Qaeda in Iraq now, or at least he was until a few days ago when they told him they needed him for car-bomb duty. Now he’s on the run. He just told me something pretty interesting.”
“Yeah? Okay. I’m waiting.”
“He said that Al Queda was going to send him outside, to connect up with the man planning their operations in Europe. They’re building a network to do car bombings in Europe. At least he says they are. He had a name for the planner. He called him Suleiman.”
“You’re right. That is pretty damn interesting.” Hoffman let out a low growl of excitement. “What else did he say?”
“Shit. Isn’t that enough? I want to get him out, Ed. We need to debrief him carefully.”
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
“I said I want to get him out. If he stays here, he’s a dead man. I told him I would get him out if he gave me the goodies.”
“No fucking way. This guy is gold. Milk him now. But you’ve got to leave him in place for a while so we can see his network. Put one of the Preds on him. We can watch everyone he talks to and then nail them.”
“But they’ll kill him. I told you that. He’s on the run.”
“Tough shit. If they kill him, then we can at least see who’s pulling the trigger.”
Ferris looked through the window at Nizar, who was standing outside in the sun. There was a hint of a smile on his face. He thought he was going to be delivered into the protection of the Americans.
“I don’t feel good about this, Ed. I feel we’re doing this thing wrong. It’s my case. Let me develop it.”
“Sorry. No can do. Debrief him now. Get everything you can, in case he does get nailed. But cut him loose today when you’re done. We’ll watch him for a while and then bring him in. I hate to be a prick, but that’s the way we’re going to run it.”
“Christ.” Ferris put the phone aside for a moment. There was no point arguing the case, not with Hoffman. “Can I promise him money and resettlement, at least?”
“Sure. No problem. Whatever you like.” Hoffman didn’t even ask how much Ferris would be offering. He knew he would never have to pay it off.
FERRIS SAT Nizar down in the house again and said he had a few more questions. The Iraqi was in a good mood now, relaxing, decompressing, imagining that his part of the nightmare would be over soon. Ferris had a little digital tape recorder going now, to capture the debrief. He asked Nizar for the names of his contacts in Al Qaeda in Iraq. He asked for the locations where he met with the members of his cell. He asked how he had been recruited, and the Iraqi explained that it had been in Amman—at a safe house near Jebel Al-Akhthar, on the southern edge of the city. He recited the address and Ferris wrote it down carefully in his notebook. If they could monitor the Amman safe house, maybe they could take down an entire network. Ferris asked for the SIM card of his cell phone, and Nizar handed that over, too.
The little Iraqi talked on for several hours. Ferris sent Bassam out to get some food, and he came back with some kebabs and Heineken beer brewed in Egypt, which Nizar devoured. It was midafternoon before they finished. Ferris was getting nervous that they had been at Bassam’s uncle’s house for so long. People in the neighborhood would know and tell others. When night fell, it would be dangerous for them here.
When Ferris had finished all of his questions, Nizar looked at him attentively.
“We are ready to go to Green Zone now, sir?” he asked.
“Not yet, Nizar.” Immediately the Iraqi’s hopeful smile dissolved. “It will take my friends a little while to arrange your departure from Iraq. In the meantime, you should go about your business. Be careful. Don’t panic. Everything will be okay.”
“But sir, they will kill me. I tell you that when we first talk.”
“They won’t kill you. We will be watching you and protecting you. We have big eyes and ears.”
Nizar was shaking his head. “Sir, I am sorry, but you cannot protect anyone. Not even yourselves. How you protect me?”
“We will take care of you. Your friend Bassam will be close. But he cannot stay with you. Neither can I. Until we come to take you out, you have to take care of yourself.”
The Iraqi made a low moan. He had given everything and gotten nothing. Ferris couldn’t leave him like that. In his depression, he would wander into a trap and be dead before sundown.
“I am going to open a bank account for you now in America. Is that all right?
Nizar’s eyes brightened slightly. “Yes, sir. How much please?”
“At first, a hundred thousand dollars. Plus we will resettle you and your wife and kids in America.”
Now the Iraqi was really perking up. “One million, please. I do not have a wife.”
Jesus, thought Ferris. A moment ago he was a goner, and now he’s dickering over money. “We’ll see about the million dollars. Right now I want to talk about how you’re going to stay safe.” He called over Bassam, and they talked through the security procedures Nizar would adopt over the next week. Ferris gave him a new cell phone to use in emergencies. The Iraqi took it greedily, as if it were a first down payment on the million dollars.
“I want to live in Los Angeles,” he said. “I want a house on the beach. Just like on Baywatch.”
“Sure,” said Ferris. “No problem.” He shook hands with the Iraqi, who slipped out the door and trundled across the dusty yard to his black BMW, thinking about girls in bikinis. He waved goodbye in their direction and drove off. That was the last time Ferris ever saw him.
BASSAM PICKED up word through one of his subagents that Nizar had been killed the following morning. Nizar had been taking his breakfast in a café off the main road in Samara, a place where people knew him. That was stupid—the opposite of what Ferris had told him to do. When he left the café, two cars had followed him. The only good news was that he hadn’t been captured. He had his own gun and man
aged to fire enough shots at his pursuers that they had to kill him, which meant they hadn’t been able to question him.
Ferris waited until late in the evening to call Hoffman. He hid out in a villa behind the police station. It wasn’t just that he was angry, it was that he knew what Hoffman would say and he didn’t want to hear it. When it was nearly midnight Iraq time, he picked up the satellite phone and dialed Langley. The watch officer put him through to Hoffman.
“He’s dead,” said Ferris. “The kid I recruited. They nailed him this morning.”
“Already? Shit. That didn’t take long. Did they interrogate him before they killed him?”
“Not from what we heard. But we weren’t there when he took the bullet. I have it secondhand, from one of my guys.”
“Fuck.” Hoffman groaned. “What did you get out of him, before they got him?”
“Good stuff. He talked for a couple of hours before I let him go. How he was recruited in Amman. The address of the safe house. Who’s in his network here. I have it all on tape. He couldn’t stop talking, he was so excited. The poor fucker.”
Even Hoffman could tell that Ferris felt guilty. “Sorry, Roger, but shit happens. I could apologize, but what’s the point? He was going to get killed no matter what he did. Because he talked to you, maybe it will save some lives.”
“Maybe,” said Ferris. “Like you said, shit happens.”
“The point is, now you’ve got to get out. We have to assume you’re blown, whether this guy talked or not. I want you back to Balad. Then we’ll see about getting you reassigned. You’re too valuable to waste.”
Body of Lies Page 4
