accomplished was awakening a bunch of innocent bystanders. By early morning it was clear that, unless we came up with another target, the whole night would have been wasted. At that point, Bam Bam made the decision to raid the cement store of Thamir Al-Asi, where Basim had told me that Muhammad Ibrahim often came to play dominoes with his friends. Since it was already daylight and there were likely to be other people in and around the store, he wanted me in on the raid. It would be my job to separate out anyone we might want to talk to from everyone else.
The cement store hit was scheduled for later that morning, so I decided to briefly question Thamir and his sons, who had been detained and brought back to the guesthouse. As much as anything, I wanted to find out what we could expect to uncover at the cement store.
My initial questioning didn’t yield much. Thamir Al-Asi was an old man who seemed completely disoriented by having been dragged out of bed in the middle of the night. But he wasn’t so confused that he didn’t know what to lie about. He insisted that he hadn’t seen Muhammad Ibrahim since the war started in April. I knew better. Both Basim and Abu Drees’s son had put the insurgent leader in Thamir’s house or at the store within the past few weeks. But that was his story and he was sticking to it.
So were his sons. Actually, the younger kid was a college freshman who was on semester break and had come home for a visit. I believed him when he told me he had no clue what I was after. The older son was another story. His name was Amir and he actually worked in the cement store. Not that it made any difference. He swore that he hadn’t seen Muhammad Ibrahim in four months and had never actually talked to him at all. On top of that, I couldn’t get either the old man or his older son to admit to having ever played a game of dominoes with the former bodyguard. I was getting nowhere. I left the Al-Asi family at the guesthouse to think things over and got ready for the hit.
The cement store was no more than three minutes from the front gate. As we drove out, I reflected on the fact that Muhammad Ibrahim had once been sitting with his friends not more than a half mile away from me. I could only hope that something would turn up this time.
It was 0800 when we arrived and a few people were already on the street, doing their morning chores. The shooters went in first, knocking down the front door and swarming into the cramped space. I followed and, taking a look around, saw nothing but stacks of cement sacks and a bag of Iraqi dinars worth about $500. The team moved upstairs where there were a few more shops on the second story. A moment later they came down with a white- haired old man, almost toothless and squinting at the bright light from the broken door.
“We found this guy upstairs,” one of the operators told me. “He says he’s the security guard for this place.” I laughed. It was as much to relieve my frustration as it was at the thought that this old guy could guard anything.
“Who owns this cement store?” I asked and my terp had to shout the question just so the guard could hear it.
“Thamir Al-Asi and Muhammad Ibrahim,” he muttered.
“When was the last time you saw Muhammad Ibrahim?”
“Three days ago.” I had the terp repeat the question, just to make sure I was getting an accurate translation from him.
“Where was he?”
“Here,” the old man answered. “He plays dominoes with his friends.”
“Which friends?”
“I don’t remember their names.”
“Thamir Al-Asi?”
“Yes, of course. He runs the store. I saw him here three days ago.”
“Basim Latif?”
“Who is that?”
“Muhammad Ibrahim’s driver.”
“Yes. He was here three days ago as well.”
“Abu Drees?”
Yes. Three days ago.”
I was beginning to wonder if the old guy knew what he was saying. Everyone I asked him about had been in the cement store three days ago. The only problem was that Abu Drees and Basim Latif had been in our custody for considerably longer. But at the very least, I had something else to go back and confront Thamir Al-Asi and his son with.
It had been an exhausting twelve hours. We had raided virtually every place in Tikrit where Muhammad Ibrahim might have been and came up with nothing. The harder I searched for this guy, the more elusive he became. It had been almost a month now since Radman Ibrahim’s son had given me the names of Muhammad Ibrahim’s three closest friends: Basim Latif, Abu Drees, and Thamir Al-Asi. We now had all three of them in custody and I had interrogated each of them. But we were no closer to our quarry than when we had begun. I was running out of people to question and places to look. I had no other choice but to go back to square one and try to dig out more information from the prisoners. Maybe there was something I missed.
I decided to focus on Thamir Al-Asi’s older son, Amir. He worked in the cement store and had admitted to at least seeing Muhammad Ibrahim there. Maybe there was a chance I could get him to admit something else. It was worth a shot.
After an hour of listening to Amir insisting on his complete innocence, I slowly and carefully explained to him that I basically didn’t care. His father was a close friend of Muhammad Ibrahim. I knew that for certain from the information I’d already gathered. I didn’t need him to either confirm or deny the fact. His father’s house and place of business had already been hit. I showed him the bag of dinars we’d found in the cement store to prove the point. Muhammad Ibrahim hadn’t been at either location. So where was he?
Amir emphatically denied knowing anything about his father’s activities or his connection to Muhammad Ibrahim.
“That’s not the point,” I countered. “You’re in trouble because of what you know. You know things you’re not telling me and you know things I just told you.”
He gave me a puzzled look.
“Amir,” I explained, “I just gave you everything we’ve learned about Muhammad Ibrahim. That’s dangerous knowledge. If I let you go, you could take it back to the bad guys. What I’ve told you makes you valuable to them. I couldn’t let you go free now even if I wanted to. You’ll be staying with us until we find who we’re after.”
“But they won’t look for me,” he cried. “I am nobody.”
“That may be,” I said reasonably. “And maybe your brother is a nobody, too.”
At the mention of his younger brother, the college student Ahmed, Amir stiffened. He obviously wanted to keep him out of trouble. It was a concern I could exploit.
“Your brother seems like a nice kid,” I continued. “He’s probably going to make something of himself. But if I bring him in here and tell him everything I’m telling you, then we’ll have to hang on to him, too. On the other hand, I know he wants to help you and your father any way he can. He’s a good son and a loyal brother. Maybe I should send him out to track down Muhammad Ibrahim on his own. Of course, if the insurgents found out who he was working for, that might make him a liability.”
“He knows nothing,” Amir insisted. “He had been away at school for many months.”
“I believe you,” I replied. “But, as I said, I don’t give a shit. I need Muhammad Ibrahim and I’ll do what it takes to get him. You tell me where he is and I’ll let you and your brother and your father go. Otherwise, none of you will ever get home again.”
Amir glared at me but kept silent. I sensed that he was a smart and practical kid. He was ready to crack. All he needed was a little more incentive. I had an idea and called for the guard to bring Basim in from the other room where he was being held.
Amir looked shocked to see his father’s old friend walk through the door. I took advantage of the moment and moved quickly. “Basim,” I said, “talk to this fool and tell him to cooperate with me.”
Basim sat down in a chair next to Amir. “What is the problem?” he asked in a calm and measured voice. “Just tell him what he wants to know, Amir.”
“But I don’t know anything,” the kid repeated with a desperate look in his eye. The arrival of Basim had definitely shaken his self-confidence.
