Amir, animated and generous, appeared to relish the meeting. Wynn could tell the Iraqi felt possessive of Wynn’s time and interpreted these meetings as giving each man part ownership in the other.
“America is strong country,” Cengo said, translating Amir’s latest statement. “America rich. This make America strong. This good, Amir say,” Cengo said in a clipped voice, sounding like an airport announcer.
Amir again leaned closer, his face brightening as if he was about to share an exclusive insight, and spoke. Both men waited for Cengo to translate. Amir’s eyebrows arched like stretching caterpillars.
“We Iraqis are old people. We have long history. Arab people have great education from this long history. It make us wise. We want help America by teaching her about our country. We good people. We want help you, Sheikh Amir say,” Cengo translated.
“This is helpful,” Wynn commented. “When we work together, we can accomplish a great deal. Americans are good people too. They want to help Iraq.”
“It good that American people want help Iraqis, but how you think I can help you?” asked Amir, through Cengo. “I have nothing to hide. We good people. We want peace.”
Wynn answered. “But Sadi,” addressing Amir with the Arabic word for sir, “you know some Iraqis don’t want peace. Some are committing acts of violence. They want to undermine the new Iraqi Government. They attack Americans. They attack Iraqis. If you can help us with any information on insurgent groups, we would greatly appreciate it.”
Amir turned briefly and spoke firmly to Cengo.
“These people foreigners. Not Iraqi. No Iraqi people,” Cengo translated.
“Yes and no,” Wynn replied gently. This was one of the important questions, he realized. How much of the insurgency was homegrown, and how much was done by outsiders?
“Not Iraqis.” Amir shook his head, as if reading Wynn’s mind, struggling to answer in English.
Amir spoke in a voice heavy with caution and reputation, like a man never hurried, like a man always heard. As a sheikh, he had the luxury of talking only when he wanted to. He said a little or a lot, depending on how he assessed his position.
Wynn visited Amir because he wanted information and cooperation. After seven months of being in the country, and months of preparing, Wynn knew this war was more about accurate information than about firepower. Counterinsurgency theory required they act like doctors: treat carefully and do no harm. This sounded fine, but no one considered it easy.
Amir wanted security and money. Money meant power and influence, the ability to have his way, to sustain his authority.
The discussion continued. Amir said he took great risks by meeting with Americans. Wynn didn’t doubt this. By now the whole neighborhood would know about this meeting. A neighboring tribal sheikh had recently been beheaded for reportedly cooperating with the Coalition, the title given to the allies fighting in Iraq. Before killing him, terrorists had visited the sheikh one night and warned him to stop talking to the Americans. He said he would but didn’t. Though dangerous, cooperation with the Americans tempted prominent Iraqis for financial reasons. Americans brought projects and money. The Takfiri—the name Iraqis used for terrorists—brought intimidation and death.
Double-dealing was as common in this part of the world as sand. Amir would be tempted to cooperate in as small a way as he could and still get what he wanted. Later that night, Amir might also be cooperating with Takfiri. The tactics would be similar. Give as little as possible to get more in return. These were rules of survival in a dangerous world.
So far they’d been sitting in a small room on western-style furniture. Now a young Iraqi boy, age maybe 14, came into the room and walked over to Amir and whispered something. Amir looked at Wynn and said, “We eat.” He led the way to another room.
“Iraqi food good. Very good. You must eat,” Amir said with pride, looking back over his shoulder at Wynn.
“I know, Sadi. I enjoy it.”
The group of seven men—four Iraqis and three Americans—entered a long narrow room. A thin carpet bisected the room, and seating pillows lined the walls. Amir motioned to the party to assemble in two rows, separated by the carpet.
“Sit down, please.”
Everyone sat, Amir directly across from Wynn, and Mr. Thumb to Amir’s right.
Within minutes, several large metal pizza-like plates loaded with food were carried in and placed on the carpet. Custom called for the meal to be served family style. No one had individual plates. The largest plate, placed between Amir and Wynn, was piled high with a mixture of rice and raisins and pieces of roasted chicken and lamb. Smaller plates held cold vegetables and flat bread.
Amir, sensing Wynn’s hesitation, picked up a piece of flat bread with his right hand and, using his hand like the mouth of a pole digger, plunged the bread into the huge mound of rice and meat. Rice and other pieces of food fell off indiscriminately as he scooped up a handful and ate.
The meal was a gesture of hospitality to the American guests. Amir orchestrated everything. The Americans drank cans of Turkish soda while the Iraqis drank bottled water—the Americans avoided most local bottled water because the bottles were often reused and refilled from questionable sources.
Wynn enjoyed the meal. The food was fresh and each man took what he wanted. Of the vegetables—probably washed in unsanitary water—he ate a few, not wanting to appear to his host as ridiculously careful.
Amir wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and picked up a particularly juicy piece of meat with his hands and put it on piece of flat bread before Wynn.
“Eat. Eat,” he said. Wynn smiled.
As they ate, the conversation sparse, Wynn studied Amir, keenly aware of the differences separating them. Different worlds made them; that indisputable fact lay in the room like a carnivore. One man grew up in a life dominated by past glories and what it had once again released, looming dangerously over the present. The other came from a new glittering and diverse place, bred on confidence and exceptionalism, yet constantly bumping into hard realities. Although he wanted and accepted the hospitality of the older man, Wynn felt as if he was being feted by an anachronism. Part of Wynn hoped that one way or another the modernity and power of America would make everything about this old man irrelevant and absurd, that newness and youth should triumph. Another part of him knew better. Nevertheless, he hoped the pragmatic nature of Americans gave them a solid chance to succeed.
When the main party finished eating, servants carried the platters out. Nothing remaining was likely to be wasted. Tradition held that after the men ate, the women would eat. The animals got what was left.
Amir, noticing the Americans were increasingly uncomfortable sitting on the floor pillows, suggested they move back into the other room. Soon came hot tea, served in tiny glass cups and saucers resembling the accessories of a doll house. Small talk resumed.
A feeling started to grow in Wynn that, so far, little had been gained from the visit. Again he carefully contemplated Amir. Wynn had hoped his respect and concentration would draw out Amir’s inner feelings and motivations. Amir appeared to detect Wynn’s uncertainty and a careful smile creased his face. His eyes narrowed into little black slivers, as if refreshed by wet ink.
Wynn asked several more questions circumspectly. The back and forth of the terp and the complications of the language barrier forced an extended deliberateness and succinctness to the interrogation. But were they really communicating? Could Amir be playing him? Wynn was sure about nothing.
He asked about Amir’s sons. Were they still in the area? He didn’t ask about his daughters. Amir spoke for several minutes in response. All Arabs liked talking about their sons. He asked Wynn whether he had sons.
“No. I’m not married. I have no children.”
For an instant, Wynn thought about Clare Baldwin, his old girlfriend back home, and about whether things could have been different. His mind retrieved her flashing smile, her soft skin,
the way she stood up slowly, the way she walked so portentously. Maybe yes; maybe no. He couldn’t let that distract him now.
“You are young, my friend. Still time,” Amir said.
Amir reverted to Arabic again, speaking to Cengo. Suddenly Amir brought his hands together conclusively, as if he’d just closed a deal, and a smile of collusion crossed his face. Cengo translated.
“He say you must not wait long to marry. You wait too long, it sad. Our culture say marry young. Sheikh Amir say he can get for you special Iraqi wife, if you wish.”
Wynn laughed.
“Tell him thanks but no thanks. Beautiful women live all over the world, but I don’t have time for that right now.”
Wynn changed the subject again and asked about the area’s population. Had it changed? Had any foreigners moved into the area? Amir said no. Hardcore Al Qaeda members were generally not locals. Most were not even Iraqis.
Amir answered each question carefully, but he always seem to be leaving half the answer out. Then Amir asked a question.
“He say there no work for the men of his tribe. Can we find help getting jobs?” Cengo translated. Moments later Amir asked when the “friends” would fix the irrigation canals. Iraqis frequently used the word friends to refer to the Americans.
Wynn answered without commitment. “We should help each other, Sadi. Iraqis help Americans. We will help you.” He wanted to convey the message that both sides should benefit. Easy generosity might undermine cooperation.
Wynn checked his watch. Time was wasting, and so far Amir had given him no important information. Wynn wasn’t surprised. It was all process, and process eats time. They would meet again soon. He took modest satisfaction in feeling he had at least furthered the connection.
“This time is now,” Amir said suddenly, with an air of finality. He struggled to speak in English. He spread his hands widely is if he was welcoming someone. “We go. We go.”
Wynn didn’t understand. Amir surely didn’t mean that he wanted anyone to leave.
“In…future…we go. Back,” Amir threw his hand over his right shoulder as if tossing trash.
“Back. No good. Back. Finished,” Amir said sharply. Doubting he’d communicated clearly, he turned and spoke to Cengo in measured Arabic, gesticulating with his hands.
“Amir say that the past is finished. Whatever happened in past is finished forever. He say even we want change it, we cannot. Saddam gone.”
Amir spoke again for nearly a full minute, before letting Cengo translate.
“Amir say that if we could go back in time, there many things we could do, do differently. He say that his oldest daughter marry weak man, and that if he knew that before, he would not take this man as his daughter’s husband. He say that if he had the power he go back and heal the eyes of his father. He mean get operation for his father. His father go blind. Operation maybe fix. But he say this we cannot do. He say that if it possible to go back and change, to fix, our past mistakes we would not be in our world. That different world. Would be God’s world. He mean only God can fix things. Not man. Only God.”
Amir reached over to a side table and picked up a silver cigarette case and lighter. He would have offered Wynn one, but he knew Wynn didn’t smoke. Amir selected a cigarette, lit it with unhurried precision, and took a deep draw, blowing the smoke overhead in wisps of satisfaction.
“My brother,” he began again in English, more softly, as if he was taking Wynn into a special confidence. “Something else. America bring princes of war.”
“Who is that?” Wynn asked, curious.
“Killers, bombers, kidnappers, thieves. All terrorists. And you. Princes of War.”
Amir stopped talking. Condescension climbed out on his face. He smoked his cigarette contemplatively, studying Wynn like a man studying a zoo animal. He never looked at Cengo. Amir continued.
“These people live from war.”
Outside, Moose and the rest of the platoon watched their assigned areas, looking for any suspicious activity. This was no easy task. Right and wrong was never entirely clear. And terrorists choose the time and place of attack.
He looked right. The street was mostly empty. A few cars were parked along the curb, near houses. He checked several roofs and saw nothing. About 100 meters up the street, an elderly man walked slowly down the north side. He looked steadily skyward, as if searching the heavens for something important.
Thinking about highbrow’s theories about Iraq, Moose smirked.
Here he was: he and other American soldiers in this ass-backwards hellhole of a place, looking to kill bad guys while avoiding being killed. They were instruments of the counterinsurgency campaign. “Instruments?” No way. That was a different world. Didn’t make sense here. Instruments were for cleanly dressed fresh-faced sensitive folks aspiring to be doctors or musicians or such, while sitting comfortably in nicely lined-up seats on manicured lawns or polished stages. They were for highly educated, clean-hand types working proficiently and delicately in temperature-controlled white rooms with lots of lights and tons of electronics. Not for him. Not for the Wolfhounds. Their world here was blunt, raw. A word like instrument carried too much precision. Here everything was rough and outlandish.
He looked left. At the far end of the street block, Humvee D22 waited. Its crew had the responsibility of watching two directions, northeast and southwest of the intersection. Three soldiers now manned the vehicle. Two men had dismounted and taken overwatch positions on a nearby house roof. Higher roofs provided superior observation positions.
The Americans called the crossing street Route Blueberry and had long since come up with their own road naming convention. A grid system, beginning with the letter W, numerically identified sectors in all the battlespaces. Unknown were the Arabic names, or if it even had a name. Americanization of area geography was necessary for basic communication and navigation.
Moose thought he made out Specialist Brett Kale’s profile on top of a house. How was he holding up? Others had recently asked that same question. Ever since Ramirez, mental fractures of some sort were messing with Kale.
Kale watched the southeast. From his rooftop vantage point he could see if someone approached from an area not observable by the teams on the ground. He was of medium build, solid, lean, and fit, but had always wanted to be bigger.
Kale knelt on the rooftop. It was hot, so hot that he felt he was weeping sweat. A small boy dashed around the edge of a house. The boy, maybe five years old, rushed to the corner of the yard, lifted his little dishdasha, and relieved himself. From the boy’s location he could see D22, but seemed not to notice it. He was dirty and shoeless and about the age of Kale’s stepson, Wilson. Kale pondered the harsh distance between this child and Wilson, a distance measured in centuries of time and furthered by the science and technology extravaganza of the western world. Did fate put one boy in this world and one in the other? Kale had an urge to go down and talk with him. He might make the boy laugh, make him forget this harsh place. What was his name?
The radio squawked and Kale turned to his left, reacting to the noise. Haller, his partner on the roof, picked up the radio handset and listened. Haller, who invariably had a wad of paper in his mouth that he chewed like tobacco, was called “Halliburton” by the platoon—a nicknamed spun off the multinational corporation of the same name—after claiming once that if all were right in the world, he’d be the heir of a great fortune.
Kale wondered whether it was another report on IEDs—Improvised Explosive Devices. During the Wolfhounds’ drive here, Charlie Company discovered an IED on Route Marlin, which ran several kilometers east of Route Blueberry. Their report included a request for an Explosive Ordinance Disposal or EOD team. The intersection of Routes Marlin and Blueberry was a frequent insurgent target. In the last 6 months, upwards of 20 IEDs had been hidden there. That statistic infuriated the soldiers; it meant insufficient surveillance. Yet Coalition convoys kept using those routes. Kale shook his h
ead in disgust.
He looked again at the Iraqi boy, who had changed his focus. He now watched D22. What did he think? The child’s concentration had shifted from the simplicity of his life to the alien Americans and the steel monster Humvees.
Inside, the meeting neared closure.
Wynn knew he shouldn’t linger longer. His platoon had been providing security outside for almost an hour. Standard operating procedures required that they avoid remaining static in an area for too long, as this invited too much attention and could give the enemy time to react.
In order to wrap things up, Wynn returned to points the sheikh had raised earlier. He summarized Amir’s requests. Regarding two civilians that had been arrested—unfairly arrested, in the sheikh’s view—Wynn promised to look into their cases. Amir requested continuation of the trash removal program because it brought jobs and money to his tribesmen. Most importantly for the sheikh—or so its emphasis made it seem—Amir wanted the right contractors chosen for construction projects in the area. The right contractor meant someone Amir favored. To all these things, Wynn said he would do what he could.
“I enjoyed the meeting, Sadi.”
“Welcome. Welcome.”
“I hope you will call me when you can help. America wants to help make Iraq a great country.”
“Thank you. Thank you.” Amir took Wynn’s hand in both his. Saggy bulges of yellowish flesh hung under both his eyes, as if egg yolk had been injected under the skin. Haider, watchful, stood close by.
Despite the inconclusive meeting, Wynn accepted why he was here. Iraq was where the war was, where the action was. Since childhood, he was imbued with a respect for martial combat, of strong men standing against bad. Now in Iraq, he was where he wanted to be: in the thick of the fight. He had the opportunity to test himself before the eyes of the world.
3
The Wolfhounds remounted their Humvees and drove west towards Route Blueberry, then Blackberry, heading back to FOB Apache, their base. Within minutes, local conditions worsened. Raw brick shacks, no exterior stucco, no decorative tile, no gardens—as if they had just left a gated community for the ʼhood.
Princes of War Page 2
