But it didn’t take me long to realize that Luay wasn’t cut out to be a real insurgent himself. He didn’t have the nerve for it. He was much more interested in his upcoming wedding, he told me. It was scheduled to be held in four days. He admitted with a shy smile that he was a virgin and that all he wanted was to make it to the mosque on time. No global war on terror was going to keep him from his future wife. He would do and say whatever necessary to get his detainment over with as quickly as possible.
After a couple of hours I called in my new backups, Basim and Amir. More than anything, I wanted to see how Luay would react. Maybe he had something more to tell that their presence might shake loose. He did, in fact, look stunned and surprised when they walked in, and he began talking even faster than he had before.
“My brother Sabah left for Baghdad three days ago,” he said before I’d even had a chance to ask the question. “I haven’t seen them since. I haven’t seen any of them since.”
“How often did you see them before that?”
“Almost every day. Sometimes they would stay and talk. But usually they just picked up Sabah and left.”
“Where did they go?”
“I don’t know. They would leave at night and Sabah would come back in the morning.”
I moved in closer, wanting him to understand that his answer to my next question was crucial. “How often did you see Sulwan?” So far, Sulwan, Muhammad Ibrahim’s brother, was my most direct link to Saddam. It was Basim who had seen him buying large amounts of food in the market.
“I saw him a lot with Muhammad Ibrahim,” he replied. “He would come to the house. But only during the day.”
“Why only in the day?”
He shrugged. “He would leave in the evening. I never saw him at night.”
“Where did he go?”
“I never asked.” I looked over at Basim. He was obviously thinking the same thing I was: Sulwan was going to Saddam’s hiding place at night.
“Did Sulwan stay at the house he rented in Samarra?” I continued.
“No,” he replied. “I don’t think he stayed in Samarra.”
“Then why did he rent the house?”
“It was for Muhammad Ibrahim. After Basim was arrested he couldn’t stay in Tikrit anymore.” He glanced over at the driver. “Muhammad Ibrahim was certain you were working for the Americans.”
“Do you know who this is?” I asked, changing tack and pointing to Amir. I was curious how familiar the Samarra insurgency was with Thamir Al-Asi and his sons.
“Yes,” Luay replied. “That is Amir Thamir Al-Asi. He shouldn’t be here. He has done nothing.”
“Just answer the questions, asshole,” I shot back. “You haven’t earned the right to an opinion yet. Only Basim has earned that right.” The driver laughed. Giving him his props was the right thing do. I wouldn’t have come this far without his cooperation, willing or otherwise.
I’d gotten as much out of Luay as I could, at least for the moment. It was time to move on to the next prisoner. “I’m going to talk to Muhammad Ibrahim’s son now,” I told Basim, Amir, and Luay. “You want to hang around and listen?” Once again, I was going against interrogation doctrine, but letting prisoners talk to each other had served me well so far and I was curious what might come up if the three of them were on hand.
But they weren’t interested. In fact, they seemed terrified at the prospect of even meeting the kid.
“If he knows we are helping you, our families are dead,” Basim explained on behalf of the others. “He may be just a boy, but his father is very powerful. We cannot be seen by him.”
“No problem,” I replied. I glanced over at Luay. He had tried his best to help. Maybe he’d be useful later. I turned back to Basim and Amir. “What do you say, guys?” I asked them. “Want another roommate?”
They agreed and the three of them were escorted out. Luay would get his own cot, a share of the cigarettes, and a chance to spend some time with his new best friends. I wished I could have been a fly on the wall for their rap sessions.
Muslit Muhammad Ibrahim Omar Al-Muslit was a pretty pathetic specimen. The son of a high government official, he’d obviously been pampered and protected his whole life. It was hard to imagine that his father was a ruthless insurgency leader. Muslit was scared of his own shadow.
I started off the questioning slowly and reasonably. I was just trying to get a feel for whom I was dealing with. It didn’t take long. He naturally insisted that he knew nothing about Muhammad Ibrahim’s activities. But I actually felt sorry for him when he explained why.
“My father is embarrassed that I am his son,” he told me. “He would never trust me with any important information.”
“What kind of information would that be?” I asked, trying to determine exactly what he did or didn’t know.
He sank lower in his chair, as if he wanted to disappear completely. “He is hiding from the Americans,” he said sorrowfully. “If he told me where he was, he is afraid I would tell you.”
“Would you tell me?”
“Even if I could, I have nothing to tell.”
“I’ll decide that,” I replied. “How long had you been at the house where we found you?”
“Only three weeks. No more.”
“Where were you living before you moved to Samarra?”
“On my uncle Sulwan’s farm in Kirkuk.” That was another location I needed to look into. The kid knew more than he thought.
“Why did you leave?” I continued.
“My uncle was nervous. He thought he was being spied on.”
“Had you ever been to Samarra before?”
“We used to go fishing here. When I was little, my father would take me to the river.”
“You don’t go anymore?”
He shook his head and gave me a forlorn look. “My father hates me.”
Muslit was breaking my heart. “Do you miss fishing with your dad?”
“Yes,” he replied sorrowfully. “He still fishes at his pond in Samarra. But he never asks me to go with him anymore.”
“How often does he go fishing?”
“He is there all the time.” This was getting interesting. I had another place on my list of Muhammad Ibrahim’s hangouts. I continued questioning in the same quiet, measured tone. I was encouraging him to reveal more about his troubled relationship with his dad. There was a lot of information between the lines.
“When was the last time you saw your father?” I asked.
“He was at the house two hours before your soldiers came,” he said.
“What?” I could hardly believe my ears. But it was obvious the kid wasn’t lying. He didn’t have it in him to be deceptive. Muhammad Ibrahim had been at Sulwan’s rental house. If we’d gotten there two hours earlier we could have rolled him up. As frustrating as this information was, it was also gratifying to know that we had been on the right track. Bam Bam’s decision to go directly to the rental house had been correct. We just got there too late.
“When was the last time Sulwan was there?” I continued.
“He was also there that evening. He left right before dinner as he usually does.”
“Where does he go?”
The kid shrugged.
“Does you father still live there?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes he goes to another place. I don’t know where it is. He doesn’t take me with him.”
“Do you know when he’s going to be there again?”
Muslit shook his head. “He would never tell me such a thing.”
“When was the last time your father was there before last night?”
“He was gone for three days. He came home in the afternoon and left in the evening.”
“What car did he use?”
“He was picked up. By Abu Sofian’s brother. His name is Muhammad Khudayr.”
“Where did they go?”
