Father of Money

by Jason Whiteley

  Tasers had just been issued to our unit a few days earlier. After several minutes of talking about their use, we took turns stunning one another and laughing at the temporary paralysis we could inflict on our friends. This was the first time that I had used it on someone who was not expecting it, and the results surprised me.

  The metallic clack of the Taser fired in a staccato voice; the twin fangs of the Taser launched and found the back of the fleeing Iraqi at equidistant points from the red laser dot that had appeared on his back as soon I had partially pulled the trigger. The sound of the Taser evaporated within a few seconds, its full venomous dosage discharged into the crumpled form that now lay screaming by the door. Although the paralyzing effect of the Taser is short-lived, the psychological paralysis lasts a while longer.

  Standing over the Iraqi, sweat now pouring profusely from his bald head, his thick waist laboring to pump enough air to his startled lungs, Ali and I began a series of rapid-fire questions and insults. After pulling him to his feet and removing his gun, we led him toward the back of the junkyard and onto a smaller street.

  I could see that my soldiers had corralled all of the would-be drivers into a group and were standing watch over a convoy of twelve tractor-trailers full of former Iraqi army vehicles from the junkyard. The tractor-trailers, each festooned with tributes to Imam Ali and Imam Hussein, the key martyrs of the Shi’a faith, stretched across the rust-colored dirt road in front of me. The bright yellows and greens of the trucks stood out as a backdrop to the dirt-colored drivers, who now knelt in front of me touching their eyes and the tops of their heads, swearing and pleading in their incomprehensible dialect. Not even Ali could understand some of the rural phrases that they were using to advocate for their freedom. To me, it looked like a carnival parade was preparing to begin with the explosion of color and the odd array of vehicles—more like Mardi Gras in New Orleans than a smuggling collection point inside the recently named “Triangle of Death.”

  Ali and I learned from the Tasered Iraqi that the organization in which he was an underboss moved scrap metal into Turkey by bribing local officials and police officers, which allowed black-market profiteers to take advantage of the lack of an enforceable law. The trucks, each carrying around twenty-four tons of steel, would arrive at the border, where the steel could be sold for $50 to $120 a ton. The gross profit from each convoy often to fifteen trucks could range from $30,000 to $50,000, and several convoys left every day. The drivers each earned $100, and the bribes along the way were not much more. That seemed like a pretty good deal for the mastermind of the operation, who was known simply as the Turk. I understood why the council members had wanted to take a bite out of the apple.

  I decided to have the underboss, who was still coming to his senses, call the Turk for a meeting. As we waited for the meeting with the Turk, I became increasingly nervous. With my soldiers standing guard over his convoy, I had something the Turk wanted, and I thought it was appropriate to discuss my terms. Yet I did not like to stop in one place for too long, because it gave potential adversaries time to encircle us and set an ambush.

  As I thought through my options, the drivers had started alternately pleading and crying, as they bombarded me with tales of starving children and forlorn wives. Already I had heard enough of their prayers, received too many compliments, and begun to grow uneasy with this entire scheme. I ordered my soldiers to get the drivers out of the office and bind each of them to their vehicles. My paranoia grew from a gnawing voice to a roaring admonishment. “Get out now,” I thought. “We have been here way too long.” It had really only been an hour, but time slows under the stress of the unknown.

  I stood in the makeshift office, which was really nothing more than an abandoned culvert—a cement cylinder, whose cool gray cement offered plenty of respite from the heat but little relief from my conscience or the sporadic firing of my stressed-out synapses. Holding steel-laden trucks hostage as leverage for a negotiation with a stranger did not seem like something worth dying for. I did not even know what the Turk would bring with him, how hostile this might become, or if it was all a setup.

  Ali, a successful underworld opportunist in his own right, was talking rapidly into his cell phone as I grew more and more agitated. “The Turk will be here in a few minutes,” he said, motioning for me to relax. I took some comfort in his manner. As a moneychanger during the Saddam era, Ali had a sixth sense for these types of encounters. It was because of his seedy past, and not in spite of it, that I found him trustworthy. On paper, he was a criminal, but by my side he had redeemed himself time and time again with his quick thinking and uncanny knowledge of the underworld of bribery and influence. More than once, he had alerted me to a possible ambush, and with AK-47 drawn he had once dispersed a mob that formed around one of our trucks when it broke down on a particularly dangerous stretch of road. If he said to relax, I guess I could relax.

  The underboss sat listlessly nearby. A round with the Taser clearly had established that he was no longer in control here. His khaki chinos and braided leather belt made him look more like a suburban father of four than an underworld boss, and I almost felt sorry for having humiliated him earlier. He sat alone and dejected and, no doubt, contemplated his lost profits. As I turned to look back down the dirt road, I heard the drone of the unmanned aircraft that the Green Zone used to survey the area. I ducked back inside the culvert; I hated those spy planes as much as the Iraqis did. Often I felt as if I had to avoid both the mujahideen and the Green Zone, just to keep my sanity. Countless times, reports from the Green Zone would inquire as to specific activities that the operators had observed from their planes’ surveillance equipment. “Why did your trucks use that road?” “Why were your trucks stopped here for so long?” The insinuations and the accusations were nonstop, and the air of superiority from those who spent their days monitoring us from the comfortable confines of the Green Zone made me sick. When would they learn that you could not fight this war from an overhead view on a monitor?

  “Amerikayee!” yelled a young boy, pointing at the plane. Ibrahim was a street kid whom I had befriended early on. His English was nearly perfect, learned from watching pirated DVDs and chasing after American soldiers. He had ridden here with his father, an Iraqi police officer I brought along to represent the council and who was also Said Mallek’s brother. It had been the father’s tip that brought us to this junkyard. Ibrahim had a particularly strong command of hip-hop lyrics and some of our more colorful phrases. Given the fact that I was also “Amerikayee,” I thought it was funny that we shared the same distaste for the spy plane. I waved dismissively. “Fuck tha police,” Ibrahim proudly exclaimed, in a musical reference to the West Coast rap of the 1980s, which still enjoyed a faithful following among Iraqi youths.

  “Is that any way to get into college?” I replied.

  My running commentary to Ibrahim was that a guy with his life story should have an easy time getting accepted at Harvard. A mujahideen youth would be a compelling diversity applicant, and I am pretty sure Ibrahim had more than only American role models. He had once showed me a plastic AK-47 that he received for attending an insurgency rally. It was a sad fact that this was a war for children’s allegiance, and toys were just as important as bullets on this battlefield. Ibrahim smiled, gave me the finger, and then ran off to hunt for more trouble.

  His father chuckled. “Captain Whiteley, you are great man.”

  Unlike Ibrahim, his father did not have a strong command of English. I had heard this flattering remark used in a dozen different contexts, and only in one or two was the phrase even approximately relevant. You did not need to do much in Baghdad to be a “great man.” Apparently, showing up for the meetings with the council was enough on most days. “La, la, habibi,” I responded. (No, no, my friend.) Today, however, I did feel like a great man. I’d caught some of the opportunistic scavengers who were capitalizing on the lack of a central government and the general lawlessness to profit off something that rightfully belonged
to the neighborhood as much as to anyone. Moreover, the people of the neighborhood revered Said Mallek, the religious leaders accorded him their favor, and it would serve me well to be in his good graces. He was a true leader and a rare find.

  Lacking the stony characteristics and the patience of his brother, Ibrahim’s father paced back and forth, growing increasingly irritated. Then several vehicles appeared on the horizon. It was the Turk and his entourage, barreling toward us in luxury BMW sedans. I was expecting a contingent of thugs to step out of the cars, so I double-checked the safety on my gold-plated Desert Eagle pistol and unlatched the safety on my Taser. I had swapped my army-issued Beretta 9mm for the Saddam-autographed .50 caliber a few days ago. I enjoyed the respect that Saddam’s legacy still commanded in the street. Iraqis respected the Desert Eagle’s gold-plated image of Saddam, and I respected its heavier bullet and solid-metal composition, both of which could be great for making a strong point in a difficult negotiation.

  To my surprise, the man who stepped out of the best-looking car was dressed in a suit and was not actually Turkish. He had been an Iraqi air force pilot in the Iran-Iraq War and had been held prisoner in Iran for several years. He lived in the lawless border region between Turkey, Iran, and Iraq, and he had developed a lucrative business dealing among the three countries. His slender frame and cool demeanor were disarming, and the casual nature of our conversation eased my fears of impropriety. There was no real law against moving the steel, and my authority to stop him was limited, a fact we both acknowledged.

  Yet I could also make his life very difficult by impounding his trucks and his drivers, both of which remained under the watchful eyes of my soldiers. Eager to avoid a conflict and salivating at the idea of striking a semilegitimate accord, the Turk offered to pay Said Mallek a 5 percent tribute on each truck. Ali’s opportunist streak got the better of him, and he became so excited that he started to bargain of his own accord. I silenced him and guided him back to simply interpreting my words. Talking through Ali, I laid out the situation of absolute poverty in the area and the need for a cash infusion. If money was being made, then there would be at least a 20 percent kickback locally. That meant two deftars, using the Iraqi slang for a $10,000 bundle, per shipment. The Turk considered his options carefully. Each minute that passed cost him money. Ali and Said Mallek’s brother were already talking about the resale prices of the impounded trucks themselves.

  While trying to conceal his Rolex as he reached into his pocket, the Turk tried to convince me of his own money problems. Nonetheless, he produced twenty thousand dollars still in their brown U.S. Treasury wrapper. Ali, whose past life as a money trader always came in handy, quickly counted the bills and confirmed their authenticity. Satisfied that he had paid his taxes, the Turk asked for nothing in return save the release of his cargo, which I promptly granted. We shook hands and wished each other well. I reminded him that his arrangement was between him and Said Mallek and that he should be careful to honor this obligation, lest I have to make a return trip and double the tax. He smiled and agreed as he jumped back into his air-conditioned Beamer and drove away.

  I smiled, too. This was not hard. Shaking down quasilegal operations for money to hand back to my council members could be my solution to the army’s slow bureaucracy. When the army could not deliver cash to ease the troubles of the soldiers in the field, I could find a way. Every day our soldiers collided with cars, raided the wrong houses, broke furniture, and, sometimes, shot the wrong person. These cases all generated paperwork, and it took months to pay the victims. The army’s lack of efficiency meant that the months of anguish, anger, and frustration among the Iraqi people served to solidify their resentment at our presence. The endless forms for a simple claim fueled their anger and feelings of helplessness and drove them into the waiting arms of religious fundamentalists who could use their international financing networks to pay cash for working against the Americans.

  The appeal was dramatic. The Iraqi people longed for a way to avenge their families and restore their pride. The sting of the invasion and the disbanding of the Iraqi army had created legions of young men looking for a cause to believe in or, more simply, a way to earn money and provide for their families. In order to combat the fanatical influence, I needed to prove that the council system could deliver results as quickly as the insurgents in the mosques. Now, with an on-the-spot payment courtesy of the Turk delivered into the waiting hands of Said Mallek’s brother, I completed the first installment of my plan to make the council system an effective local governance tool.

  “You are Abu Floos,” he said. I turned to Ali for a translation. “He says that you are the Father of Money, Captain Whiteley.” The nickname stuck. With the money sticking out of his bulging pockets, Ibrahim and his dad headed for Said Mallek’s house, and we followed shortly behind. When we arrived, almost fifty people were gathered. Sitting around in their odd collection of velour tracksuits and sandals, most of the young men were brandishing newly polished AK-47s. As we stopped, they began clamoring for the boxes of “Iraq Peace and Prosperity” T-shirts that I had in my truck. The shirts represented the most recent public relations initiative sponsored by the Green Zone leadership. Written in both English and Arabic, the inspirational motto was supposed to communicate a sense of optimism among the people that would offset the growing despair and violence in the street. As it turned out, the army had printed the optimistic logos on black T-shirts, a favorite color of the Shi’a insurgent militias. It was another of those moments when you think that the U.S. Army should be better at realizing the possibility of unintentional coincidences, but you resign yourself to the fact that we do not fight this kind of war well. The insurgents simply wore the shirts as part of their all-black insurgent uniforms. In effect, the U.S. taxpayer had supplied thousands of mujahideen uniforms in sizes ranging from extra small to extra large. I think the mujahideen must have appreciated that we had given them enough sizes to accommodate all of their members.

  Already the news of our successful black-market intervention had traveled to Said Mallek, who was presiding over this chaotic throng. As I walked in, he greeted me with a kiss on both cheeks in front of the entire group—a true sign of acceptance. We went to his living room, where Ibrahim emptied his pockets. I reminded Said Mallek that some of the money needed to go to the mosque to rebuild the dome. As a sheik, Said Mallek knew this obligation well, and it was a role he embraced. Every person he helped owed him loyalty. With his newfound wealth, his influence and his tribe would grow, and already people were walking from the little cinder-block houses across the muddy fields to plead their cases for his aid.

  As we shook hands, we acknowledged the growing allegiance between us. I had promised him the money and delivered it within a week. I had kept my word, which had earned me an additional level of respect. I started to understand the Inshallah, “God willing,” attitude. Maybe this was how the Middle East worked—a benevolent Allah dropping timely bits of fortune along your path. After the night at the mosque, I had realized that Said Mallek’s influence would be central to my survival. Where it did not exist, I had to create it. I would make him as powerful as possible, and he would protect me as well as he could. This had to be the way. Find allies and make them stronger.

  It seemed that neither the U.S. Army nor the State Department understood this necessary dimension of power in Iraq. Handing out soccer balls and backpacks full of school supplies made great photos to send back home, but these actions had little impact on the local balance of power. After weeks of council meetings and bureaucratic impotence, I had finally found a way to meaningfully accomplish my mission and to help the Iraqi people. With one day’s work, I had earned the blessing of an influential sheik and provided the money to repair an important Shi’a shrine. I had endeared myself and, by extension, my fellow soldiers to scores of previously adversarial people.

  Regardless of how the ubiquitous PowerPoint presentations may have described it to visiting politicians, life outside th
e Green Zone was run by a feudal system of money and power. To make a difference here, I needed to learn the contours of the power structure and where I could best insert myself for an immediate and dramatic effect. While the army dragged its feet and worried about photo opportunities, Said Mallek and Abu Floos would stabilize Al Dora, one payoff at a time. These thoughts drifted beyond the boundaries of my military education and dangled tenuously close to an ethical abyss. Yet the goals of progress and prosperity, as stated on the T-shirt, washed away my doubts about propriety and legality. There was a pressing mandate to understand Iraqis and their society and to provide them with an opportunity to rebuild their lives. There were different methods, but the sense of urgency and the race against the growing fundamentalist threat made the more bureaucratic methods unrealistic.

  My flexibility and initiative had just paid off, and they rapidly transformed my understanding of how I could succeed at making my area safer for everyone. I felt as if this was the way out of the maze of streets that defined Al Dora. The exit was not found by patrolling endless dead-end roads and trails; it was by going straight through the sun-baked walls into the damp, carpet-covered sitting rooms of the tribal leaders. By breaking through the rules and the layers of bureaucracy, by redefining what was acceptable, I absorbed the raw power that flowed through ancient tribal veins every time I shook hands with a new ally.

  Yet a gnawing feeling kept eating at my conscience and prevented me from enjoying the moment. I wondered how sustainable this could be. How many opportunities would present themselves that were this easy? Already I feared that I had overstepped my bounds in pursuit of a promise that I had made to the council. My military instruction, even my hallowed ethical indoctrination at West Point, did not have a clear definition or guideline for the murky relationship that was forming between me and the Iraqi leaders. As the demands of the council became greater and the opportunities to satisfy them grew scarcer, how far could I go without succumbing completely to this Robin Hood mentality of power that already seemed so tempting? I knew I would eventually have to say no. I feared the consequences of that day and found that only “Inshallah” could keep my worried thoughts at bay.