more room in the prison.”
I shrugged. “I’ll take them all, Kelly.”
“Then I’ll get the approval,” he said. There was a long pause. We both knew that this was the end of the line for our working relationship. We had been thrown together in an uncertain and unpromising situation and, through it, become a team. I’d asked him to take some real risks and he’d backed me up when it counted. We had accomplished a lot. But we hadn’t finished the job. It was a realization we both shared as we sat one last time at the table where we had spent so many hours together.
I reached over and slapped him on the back. “It was great to work with you, Kelly,” I said.
He looked over and smiled. “Dude, you’re gay,” was all he said.
It was getting dark by the time I stood at the helicopter pad with a motley crew of prisoners waiting for the flight back to Baghdad. We must have made an odd sight: one guy in a faded blue shirt with a duffel bag escorting a gang of handcuffed prisoners ranging from a teenager to an old man. It was like I was bringing back souvenirs from my stay in Tikrit.
I’d already said my good-byes to the shooters. If they were sorry to see me go, they didn’t exactly show it. I expected as much. They were consummate professionals trained to not show emotion. I’m sure they liked me well enough and had even come to respect the work that I did. But for them, Tikrit was just another mission in a war that brought people together and pulled them apart with no regard to friendship. They didn’t get too close to anybody except each other. They were an elite fraternity I would never be a part of. I accepted that. I was just grateful that they had let me be a part of their world for a little while.
As I waited for my ride, a figure came out of the dusk to see me off. It was Bam Bam. “We gave them a run for their money,” he said, as the lights of the chopper appeared in the distance. “We were really close to getting this thing done and we know that. You worked hard. Don’t think that wasn’t appreciated.”
“Thanks, Bam Bam,” I said as we shook hands. Whatever else might have been said between us was lost in the roar of the descending chopper. I climbed on board with the rest of my human cargo and watched as the ground shrank below me. I could see the guesthouse where I had spent so much time and effort and the lights from the kitchen where someone was preparing dinner. It had been my home for the last five months, the place where I learned a lot, about human nature and about myself. It had marked an important passage in my life, and the most significant mission of my career.
Sure, I thought as we peeled off to the east. We gave them a run for their money. But in the end, did any of it really matter?
Chapter 16
BACK TO BAGHDAD
We arrived at BIAP just after 2200 on Monday night, December 8. Lee was waiting at the runway with a truck. From the minute we saw each other, we just picked up where we had left off five months ago. He was my best friend and although we were glad to see each other, there was no need to express it in words.
With a raised eyebrow, Lee looked over the gang of prisoners. “Too attached to your new buddies to leave them behind?” he joked.
I laughed, but my mind was on something else. “You still have the fishermen?” I asked.
He nodded. “They’re waiting for you. The interrogators who talked to them have got new guys to deal with. They’re all yours.”
“Can I get a terp?”
“Use mine,” he offered. “He’s the best one here.”
After I handed off the detainees for in-processing, Lee introduced me to the other interrogators. The whole operation was completely different from Tikrit. There were six interrogators working on a tight schedule in a building specially modified for the purpose. They were about to have what is called a shift change meeting and invited me to sit in. After five months of working on my own, it was hard to see the point of going around a table where every interrogator reported on what they had been doing for the last twelve hours. It felt like a waste of time, but I kept my opinion to myself.
One of the interrogators explained how he had spent the last three days trying to get a prisoner to sign a written confession. He was convinced that a confession meant that his subject had been broken. I thought back to my own experience. If I had depended on signed confessions, I would have been sitting with a pile of paper and no actionable information. You know a prisoner is broken when he tells you something you can use.
It was only then that I really began to fully appreciate how valuable my experience in Tikrit had been. I didn’t have to waste a lot of time on paperwork, whether it was the signed confessions of detainees or regular reports on my interrogations. I didn’t need to get approval on whom to question or how to do it. That being said, I never used violent or unethical means. I didn’t need to. I had developed my own methods that produced real results.
It wasn’t until 0100 that night that I finally got a chance to question the two captured fishermen. As anxious as I was to talk to the fishermen, I didn’t have a lot of confidence that they would provide me with any new leads. And even if they did, I wasn’t going to have time to follow them up before I had to head back to the States.
But by now I was used to grasping at straws. I questioned the fishermen separately and almost immediately picked up some interesting information.
The first prisoner we had rolled up at the pond claimed that he owned the fish farm. I knew that wasn’t true, since I had already established that Muhammad Ibrahim and Muhammad Khudayr held the title. Why was this guy lying? It would have made more sense to say that he and his buddy were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, out at night fishing for their supper. To insist that he actually owned the place was to put him directly in the loop.
My next move was to take the fisherman out of the room. While he was gone I had Basim brought in and sat him down in a back corner. When the prisoner was returned I made sure he faced me directly. Basim’s face remained in the shadows. I wanted him to hear the fisherman’s story and give me his take.
I had the prisoner repeat everything he had told me and then outline his family connections and other background information. After about an hour he was escorted out again.
“This man is known for being the very best cook of mazgoof,” Basim told me as soon as we were alone. “I have eaten his fish before. Muhammad Ibrahim uses him often to cook for his friends.”
So the fisherman knew Muhammad Ibrahim. It seemed likely that he was trying to hide that information from me by claiming to run the fish farm instead of admitting that he knew who actually owned the place. What I needed to find out now was the nature of the link between my prisoner and the man I had been chasing for so long.
I had the second fisherman brought in. Basim remained in the shadows at the back of the room. I was thankful I’d decided to bring him to Baghdad with me. He had proven his value in a dozen different ways.
Almost from the start of my interrogation, it was clear that the second fisherman had little to offer. Basim immediately signaled to me that he had no idea who the man was. But as I had already learned in Tikrit, innocent bystanders could reveal a lot if you ask them the right questions.
“How long have you been fishing with your friend?” I asked him.
“About a month,” he replied promptly. “We fish together many nights.”
“How did you meet him?”
“My brother. He said this man was looking for someone to do work for him. I needed a job.”
“What was your job?”
“Fishing.”
“Does your boss own the fish farm?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. I believed him. He wasn’t acting as if he had anything to hide. “I think it was given to him.”
“By who?”
“His cousin died last month. I think his family gave it to him then. But I don’t know for sure, mister. I just work for this man. I swear I have done nothing wrong.”
“Shut up,” I ordered him. “I’ll let you know if you’ve done something wrong.” I was thinking and I didn’t want
