to be interrupted. Who had recently died? Radman Ibrahim Al-Muslit, Muhammad Ibrahim’s brother, had keeled over from a heart attack while in custody in early November. But I knew the entire Al-Muslit family tree and this guy wasn’t on it. Who else? Abu Sofian, the Samarra insurgent leader and brother of Muhammad Khudayr, had been killed a month earlier by coalition forces. Was it possible that the first fisherman was related to Muhammad Khudayr?
I sent the second fisherman out of the room and ran my theory past Basim. “It is most certainly possible,” he told me.
That was all I needed to hear. I had the first fisherman, whom I now suspected was a relative of Muhammad Khudayr’s, brought back in.
I started in on him again, taking into account my new theory. My aim was to get him to admit a connection to the two Muhammads.
“How long have you lived in Samarra?” I asked.
“My whole life.”
“How long have you owned the fish farm?”
“For only a month.”
“How did you get it?”
“It was given to me by my mother’s family.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“My mother’s brother. My uncle. He is dead.”
I glared at him. “If he’s dead, how could he give you the fish farm?”
“It was his son,” he stammered. “My cousin. He is dead, too.”
I almost laughed. Did this guy hear dead people? “Listen, asshole,” I shouted. “I want the name of someone alive. Who gave you the pond?”
He was quaking now. “My cousin,” he told me at last. “He has a business partner. He gave me the pond.”
“What is your cousin’s name? The one who’s still alive.”
“Muhammad,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.
“Muhammad what?” I demanded.
“Muhammad Khudayr.”
Now we were getting somewhere. I bent down in front of the trembling fisherman until I was inches from his face. I dropped my voice until he had to strain to hear me. “I want you to look at me and listen very carefully,” I said. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“No,” he replied. “I have done nothing.”
I shook my head. “You have done something,” I told him. “You have gotten involved with some very bad men. Do you know who those men are?”
“No.” He couldn’t look me in the eyes.
“They are your cousin Muhammad Khudayr and his business partner. Do you know the name of his business partner, the man who gave you the fish farm?” I wanted him to say it first. If I told him that I knew it was Muhammad Ibrahim, I’d be tipping my hand. He could deny it or pretend he never heard the name. I’d be chasing ghosts again. It was critical that it came directly from him.
“No,” he said. “I do not know his name.”
There was a knock at the door. Lee appeared and motioned for me to come out. I sent everyone back to their cells and joined Lee in the hallway. With him was a guy he introduced as Walt, an analyst and Kelly’s Baghdad counterpart. I’d never met him, but I knew him by name. He was the one whose tracking system couldn’t see the boat on the pond when we did the fish farm raid. Not that it mattered now. The targets I had insisted were the two Muhammads turned out to be two fishermen. But I still had no use for Walt. To me he represented another obstacle to completing the mission. I’m sure the feeling was mutual.
But my opinion was to quickly change. “Are you talking to those fishermen?” he asked in a thick southern accent after we shook hands.
I nodded. “One of them is Muhammad Khudayr’s cousin, he is more than just a fisherman.” I was curious to see if the name would mean anything to him.
It did. “Mind if I sit in on the interrogation?” he asked. He had obviously taken an interest in where this might go next. “Kelly’s been keeping me up to date on what’s happening. I know you’ve been looking for Muhammad Ibrahim and I can understand why. I think he’s the key to the whole insurgency.”
My regard for Walt suddenly shot up. “I’m glad you think so,” I said. “I get the feeling no one else around here has ever even heard of him.”
“Kelly sent everything straight to me,” Walt explained. “I’ve been keeping a pretty close eye on what you all have been doing in Tikrit.”
“I’m scheduled to ship out of here in a couple of days,” I said. “But I may still get something out of these fishermen. Especially Khudayr’s cousin.” I looked him the eye. I had nothing to lose now. “If I get a target, will you push to have it hit?”
Walt smiled. “All I can do is make a recommendation to the commander,” he replied. “But he usually goes with what I suggest. Kelly told me that if anyone could get anything out of those two fishermen, it would be you. That’s why I’m here.”
“Let’s get to work then,” I said.
Aside from his knowledge and support of the work we’d been doing in Tikrit, Walt proved his worth in another way. He was a pretty good interrogator. As soon as we brought back Muhammad Khudayr’s cousin, the two of us went at him fast and furious. It was as if Walt understood the urgency I was feeling as my final hours in Iraq ticked down. By the intensity and volume of our questioning, we made it clear to the fisherman that we were determined to get the answers we were after. When one of us slowed down, the other picked up the slack and the prisoner hardly had a chance to catch his breath.
It was still a good three hours before his story started to crack. At first, he insisted that Muhammad Khudayr was no more than a distant relation and that he had no idea who his business partner might be. I was still holding back on mentioning Muhammad Ibrahim. I wanted him to bring it up first.
But I was running out of time. I finally had no choice but to give him the name of the man I’d been desperately searching for. “Your cousin’s partner is Muhammad Ibrahim, asshole,” I shouted. “You know it and I know it. And here’s something else I know. You’re going to spend the rest of your life in prison for aiding and abetting a known terrorist. We tried to help you but you didn’t want our help. Now it’s too late.”
That did the trick. The fisherman started talking. In fact, once he got started, it was hard to keep up with him. “Yes, mister,” he admitted. “Now I remember. It was Muhammad Ibrahim. Ever since Muhammad Khudayr’s brother, Abu Sofian, died, they are always together.”
“Do they go to the fish farm?” Walk asked.
“Almost every day. But they never stay there.”
“Where do they stay?” I asked.
“My cousin’s house or the house Muhammad Ibrahim rented in Samarra.”
We had already been down that road. It had ended in two dry holes. “Where else?” I demanded.
“I don’t know,” he insisted. “They have left Samarra.”
“When?” interjected Walt.
“Four days ago,” the fisherman answered. “That was the last time I saw them.”
“Where did they go?” I pressed.
“They are always together,” the prisoner replied, trying to avoid the question.
“I didn’t ask you that, shithead,” I shouted. “I asked you where they went.”
He looked from Walt to me and back again. You could almost hear the gears turning in his head. He had reached the inevitable conclusion. There was no way out now but our way. “I swear I don’t know,” he began, and then took a deep breath. “But my cousin and I have an uncle in Baghdad. Perhaps they are there.”
“Where is your uncle’s house?” Walt asked.
The fisherman gave us the location. By now he was fully cooperative. His was the typical profile of a broken prisoner, going from evasive and defiant to ready, even anxious, to help. He had no objection when we informed him that he was going on a recon to point out the exact location of his uncle’s place.
