I spent the next two hours grilling him on other Al-Muslit family members and their respective best friends. It was only after the extensive detour that I brought the questioning back around.
“This driver of Muhammad Ibrahim. What’s his name again?”
“Basim Latif.”
“Yeah, that’s the guy. And where does he live?”
“His house is behind the governor’s mansion.”
“And the business partner?”
“Abu Drees. He has a store that sells rock and stones for construction. It is owned by Muhammad Ibrahim.”
That was the information I was after. If I could just convince Kelly and Bam Bam, then these locations would be the next targets for a hit. But to cover my tracks, I spent another hour going over more details of friends and family before finally letting Baby Radman go.
“We need to put a couple more guys on the link diagram,” I told Kelly when I returned to the house.
“I’m sure you have your reasons,” he said, after I told him about Basim Latif and Abu Drees. “But we can’t just go after someone because they used to know Muhammad Ibrahim.”
“I need to find these guys, Kelly,” I replied.
“Look,” he said with an edge to his voice. “You keep going down on this fucking link diagram and we’ll never get anywhere. We’re supposed to be working our way up. But you’re just adding names to the bottom of the list.”
“I know,” I said, “But if I can’t go up then I’ve got to go down. And if I can’t go down than I can’t go anywhere—”
“Eric,” he interrupted. “We have to justify bringing in low-level people that haven’t done anything. Muhammad Ibrahim may be at the top of your list, but he doesn’t mean shit in Baghdad. Now you want his driver and his business partner. How are we going to explain that?”
I could tell he was frustrated. So was I. If I couldn’t sell this to Kelly, I couldn’t sell it to anyone. And for the moment, he wasn’t buying.
Despite Kelly’s skepticism, I knew I had to find a way to make this happen. With Radman dead and Farris Yasin still tight-lipped, the driver and the business partner provided the only link I had left to Muhammad Ibrahim. I desperately needed to bring in Basim Latif and Abu Drees.
Fortunately help arrived from a very unlikely source. The morning after my session with Baby Radman, I was scheduled for a source meeting with Fred. Chris’s old informant had been keeping track of the street gangs in Tikrit that were aiding the insurgency. My intention was only to find out if he’d learned anything new about Munthir, the thug who ran the largest and most vicious of these groups. But once I sat him down I had another idea. It wouldn’t hurt to ask him what he knew about Muhammad Ibrahim.
“He is very important, mister,” Fred told me.
That much I already knew. “Do you ever see Muhammad Ibrahim?”
“Before the war, but not now,” he explained.
“You ever heard of someone named Abu Drees?” I continued.
He grinned. “He is a friend of Muhammad Ibrahim. I know where he is. I can take you to his house. He lives next door to Ahmad Hussein.”
“And who is Ahmad Hussein?”
“A very bad man,” Fred assured me. “He has RPGs. He has shot down two American helicopters.”
A man in Tikrit with a rocket-propelled grenade launcher and a grudge against Americans was hardly news. I’d had dozens of such reports from detainees since I’d arrived, most of them bullshit. I was about to add Fred’s to the pile. He wasn’t the most reliable source I’d ever worked with. But then I got an idea.
“Fred, can you call me when Abu Drees and Ahmad Hussein are both at home?”
“Mister, I give you good information all the time. You never do anything with it.”
“Just call me,” I repeated and hurried off to find Kelly.
I found him back at the house and ran down the information I’d just gotten. “I think these are good hits,” I added.
“Where did you get this?” Kelly asked skeptically.
“Fred,” I said under my breath.
He laughed out loud. He knew Fred’s reputation only too well.
“Look, Kelly,” I said, talking fast, “I know what you’re thinking. This chopper thing may not be real. But Abu Drees is. And he’s going to tell us where Muhammad Ibrahim is. All we need is a reason to do the hit. Now we’ve got one.”
“Did this guy Ahmed Hussein really shoot down a helicopter?” Kelly asked dubiously.
“Maybe,” I said without conviction. “Somebody had to have shot them down. Maybe it’s this guy. Will you push for the hits?”
He gave me a long silent stare. I took it as a yes.
Six hours later we had completed a successful raid on the two objectives. I was in the guesthouse with Abu Drees, wondering if I’d made a mistake. He was an old man, confused and disoriented. I tried patiently to build his timeline, but the dates kept contradicting one another and the facts didn’t add up. Words were coming out of his mouth but nothing was connecting. I wondered if he was maybe senile or if it was just an act. I needed another way to get at this guy.
I found it when I began interrogating his son Akail, who had also been rounded up in the raid and was being kept in a separate room, along with Abu Drees’s younger son, Ahmed, who had also been captured. Akail was a huge guy, over six feet and easily two hundred and fifty pounds. But he was also clearly terrified. It was a condition that once again could prove very useful to my purposes.
He answered the preliminary questions as if, more than anything, he wanted me to tell him how to stay out of trouble. I did nothing to reassure him, patiently piling facts until the time was right to make my move. “Your dad says he is in business with Muhammad Ibrahim,” I said. Abu Drees had said nothing of the sort, but I needed a way to get the ball rolling.
“I don’t know who that is,” he replied evasively.
“Come on, Akail. Everyone knows Muhammad Ibrahim. He’s your dad’s best friend.”
He swallowed hard. It was obvious that his fear was at odds with his family loyalty. “They own a few buildings together,” he said at last. “That is all I know.”
I returned to Abu Drees. From here on out, my strategy was simple: play the father off the son and the other way around.
“Your son tells me you are very close to Muhammad Ibrahim,” I said. “He says you own property together.”
“Yes,” Abu Drees replied, squinting at me as if trying to figure out what I knew and what I was pretending to know. “Sometimes we drink and play cards together.”
“Your son tells me you still see him very often.”
Abu Drees shook his head. “Not since the war began,” he lied. “That’s not what Akail says.”
“My son knows nothing,” he insisted.
“I’ll tell him you said so,” I replied as I went out the door and down the hall to where Akail was waiting.
“All you know is that your dad and Muhammad Ibrahim own some buildings?” I asked the frightened hulk. “What about the drinking and the card games. Did you forget about that, you piece of shit?” I dropped my voice to a hoarse whisper. I was after maximum effect. “Your dad can’t tell me about Muhammad Ibrahim, Akail. He wants to, but he can’t because he is afraid. This is your fault. You can help him but you won’t.” I opened the door and called to the guard. A moment later he escorted in the shuffling and miserable Abu Drees. He was drenched with sweat and his hands, cuffed behind him, trembled violently. “Look at your dad!” I shouted at Akail. “He may die in prison and you won’t help him.” It was generally against protocol to interrogate more than one prisoner at the same time. But I had no choice. One of these two had to talk to me. There was no other way that was going to happen.
“Take him away, please!” sobbed Akail. “Help him! I will tell you what you want to know.”
One of the operators hustled Abu Drees out and I waited a few minutes while Akail pulled himself together. “Muhammad Ibrahim was with my father two weeks ago,” he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “I swear to you.”
