“You think?”
He looked wary. “It is cement.”
“Who runs the store?”
“I do not know, mister.” I could see the fear on his face now, and hear the tremor in his voice.
“Come on, Basim, you’ve lived in Tikrit your whole life. You know everyone and their uncle. Who runs the store?”
A long silence followed. “I think,” he replied in a hoarse whisper, “it is a man named Amir.”
“Amir
“Amir Al-Asi,” he replied, staring at the table.
I took out the piece of notepaper and without unfolding it, handed it to Bam Bam. He opened it and glanced back at me with a nod.
“Thamir Al-Asi is an associate of Muhammad Ibrahim and a close friend to Basim Latif,” he read silently. “He runs a cement store with his two sons, Amir and Ahmed.”
My intent had been to let Bam Bam know that I had anticipated where this would be going. In fact, I really hadn’t been sure until the driver started talking about paying his rent. At that point, I put together his story with the accounts I’d been given about Muhammad Ibrahim actually owning the cement store and the house where Basim and his family lived. His landlord was Muhammad Ibrahim, and there was no way Basim could not have known that.
If Basim had admitted up front that he was living, most likely rent free, in a house provided by his former boss, he would have proven where his loyalty lay. But instead he was trying to hide his close connection to the man we were after. Basim had tipped his hand. It was there for everyone, but most importantly Bam Bam, to see.
“Basim,” I continued. “Who really owns your house?”
“I do not know,” he stammered. “I know only Amir. I am trying to help you, mister.” It was apparent that he didn’t want to bring up the name of Thamir Al-Asi and was trying to throw us off the track by only mentioning his son Amir.
The chief stepped forward. “It is time for me to pray,” he said abruptly. He obviously didn’t like the direction the interrogation was taking. In less than an hour, I had established that his cousin was lying about his willingness to work on our side. More important, Basim still had direct ties to Muhammad Ibrahim that he was hiding from everyone, including his uncle.
Bam Bam ordered the 4th Infantry MPs to take Basim into another room. He gestured for me to follow him into the hall. “So what now?” he asked when we were alone.
“Bam Bam,” I said, “I need this guy. And I need him in custody. He’s the key to Muhammad Ibrahim, and Muhammad Ibrahim is the key to Saddam.” It was the first time I’d actually spoken the connection out loud. There was no turning back now. It was all on Bam Bam.
“Eric,” he said, “if we bring this guy in today, you’re going to have to produce some results fast. Either that or you’re going to come to CENTCOM with me to explain to General Abizaid how we got the entire U.S. military on the mayor of Tikrit’s shit list.”
I took that as a yes, we were going to arrest Basim.
We returned to the chief’s office where Bam Bam cut directly to the chase. “Your cousin is not being honest, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry, but he has to come with us.”
“I will take full responsibility for Basim,” was the chief’s rattled reply. “He will be your best source, I guarantee. He will live inside my house and you will have access to him whenever you wish.”
Bam Bam just shook his head. “He lied to you and he lied to us.”
I could see the jaws of the 4th Infantry guys collectively drop. They hadn’t believed for a minute that we would actually take Basim with us. And I could almost see them gleefully anticipating what kind of trouble we were getting ourselves into. But Bam Bam never blinked, and neither did the other shooters. In that moment, I was never more proud to be a part of their team.
But even as we walked back out to the Humvees, I knew that the hard work was just beginning. And Bam Bam confirmed it when he turned to me and said, “Eric, I need whatever targets you get from Basim, asap.”
Chapter 12
THE SPIGOT
As soon as I got Basim back to the guesthouse, I came down on him fast and furious. I had wanted to start off slower and try to build a rapport. But since he had stuck to his story about only wanting to be a fully cooperative source, he left me no option.
It took me an hour just to convince him that he was no longer considered a friend. From here on out, he was a prisoner and would be treated accordingly. The reasons were simple: he had a past association with a suspected leader of the insurgency, he had provided inaccurate or false answers when questioned by U.S. personnel, and he could potentially put coalition forces in harm’s way if he was released.
His response was to insist that if we held him, he would lose any possibility of regaining Muhammad Ibrahim’s trust. The harder I pushed, the more he dug in his heels. He downplayed his association with his old boss, claiming he was little more than a glorified taxi driver. I think he wanted me to get a picture of him driving Muhammad Ibrahim from behind a glass window, shut off from any contact with his passenger. He had no idea what was going on in the backseat of his own car. If that were true, I pointed out, then Muhammad Ibrahim would have no reason to be concerned that Basim had been arrested. If there was nothing he could tell us that would implicate Muhammad Ibrahim, why would he need to regain his trust?
He didn’t have a good answer for that, so I moved on. My next area of interest was Thamir Al-Asi, the cement store proprietor and Muhammad Ibrahim’s alleged business partner. While I knew that Thamir should be our next hit regardless of what Basim revealed, I didn’t let him know that. Instead I suggested that if Basim would tell us where our target was, we would have no reason to roll up Thamir. If he didn’t, we’d have to move on to the next potential source of intelligence that would lead to Muhammad Ibrahim.
“There is no need to arrest Thamir,” Basim insisted. “He will not know where Muhammad Ibrahim is.”
“Did you ever drive him to Thamir’s house?” I asked.
“Many times.”
“Did he ever stay the night there?”
“Yes.”
“So why wouldn’t he be there now?”
“Since I have been arrested,” he replied, “Muhammad Ibrahim has been in hiding. He thinks I am working for you and that I will tell you everything he does. So now, he will change everything. He will not go back to Thamir Al-Asi’s house again.”
He was giving me another opening and I took it. “He’s going to change everything because you know everything, Basim,” I shot back. “He’s worried because we’ve arrested you. He knows what you could tell us if you wanted to. But you don’t want to, do you, Basim? You’re playing a game with us. You’re wasting my time. I’m going to pick up Thamir because you’ve left me no choice. And you’re going to come with me. That way, everyone will know that you’re working for us. I’ll make sure of that.” I leaned in close. “And I’ll also make sure that you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison.”
Basim’s eyes bounced from my face to the wall and back again. It was finally getting through. He was beginning to understand that his choices had just narrowed drastically.
“You won’t find Muhammad Ibrahim,” he finally said. “He is not in Tikrit anymore.”
“Basim, you told me you saw him in the market a few days ago.”
“It is not true. I did not see him.”
“So,” I said, still inches from his face, “if he’s not in Tikrit, then where is he?”
“I heard he was in Samarra.”
“Why Samarra?”
“So many of his relatives have been arrested here,” Basim explained. “He was fearful they would turn on
