It was on December 1, with the clock still ticking on my tour of duty, that I finally got word I would have another chance to question Basim Latif. Not only would Bam Bam and Kelly be present, but the entire team was going to show up for the session. It was scheduled to be held at the offices of the mayor of Tikrit, housed in a large three-story office building.
While the shooters had occasionally dropped by the guesthouse to watch my interrogations in the past, this was something different. It was as if, without a word being said, they all understood how much was riding on my confrontation with Basim. They wanted to be there when it went down. Despite the fact that I would now have an audience, I felt strangely calm. We were in this together, from Bam Bam to the most junior operator. Any success that might come from what was about to happen would be a success we would all share.
The streets of Tikrit were empty as we rode to the mayor’s mansion. It was a quick trip out of the wire and I had one last opportunity to think about what I needed to do: convince Bam Bam to arrest a well-connected and seemingly innocent citizen of Tikrit.
I reviewed the facts in my head. Basim Latif was the former driver of Muhammad Ibrahim, the next link in the long chain of Al-Muslit bodyguards I’d assembled on the link diagram. I was pretty sure Basim could take us to his old boss if I could get him to open up. Then Muhammad Ibrahim, a trusted adviser of Saddam, might be able to take us to
But Basim was also the cousin of one of Tikrit’s top-ranking security chiefs. His responsibility was to guard the Sunni governor of the city. By supporting the Americans, the governor had made himself a prime insurgent target. The fact that he was even still alive was proof that his security chief was a powerful man. If he didn’t want his cousin arrested, he could make real trouble for us.
What we were about to do was risky in all kinds of ways. I ran down the worst-case scenario in my mind as we made our way through town. If Bam Bam actually authorized the arrest of Basim, he’d be putting his career on the line. But I also knew that bringing in Basim was our best shot at getting one step closer to Saddam. Without Basim, I’d come to a dead end.
I wiped my forehead with the sleeve of my blue oxford shirt, the one I’d been wearing on and off between T- shirts for over four months now. We had reached the barbed wire perimeter of the mayor’s office, patrolled by local police and Iraqi military, as well as U.S. troops. They immediately escorted us through a maze of hallways to the security chief’s office. As we arrived at the heavy wooden door, I glanced over at Bam Bam. I knew he still hadn’t made up his mind whether or not to arrest Basim. He would weigh his options as they unfolded.
The chief was a supremely self-confident officer, well groomed with a crisp, clean uniform. He was polite, even soft-spoken. Regardless of what was at stake, this was all going to be very courteous and respectful.
“My cousin is not here at the moment,” he said as we entered. “My men will bring him.” Then he started with his version of the speech I’d heard delivered so many times before by Iraqis to Americans. “I want you to know how pleased I am that we have been able to support you and your mission to make Iraq a safe and free country. We are working as brothers to complete this mission. I am sure my cousin Basim will be a very valuable asset to you.”
Bam Bam didn’t miss a beat. “Chief, if Basim is being completely honest, there will be no problem.”
“I can assure you my cousin will be honest with you,” the chief replied. “I give you my word. In turn, I would like your assurance that you will not take Basim with you.”
“If he’s telling the truth, that won’t be a problem,” Bam Bam repeated.
“As I said, you have my word.” The chief was clearly prepared to stand up for his cousin. This could get ugly.
The door opened again and Basim was escorted in. He seemed in good spirits and exchanged the traditional kisses on the cheek with his older cousin. Then he turned to us with a sly smile. Bam Bam caught my eye and gave me an unmistakable cue: it was showtime.
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.”
