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 him.”
“What is Muhammad Ibrahim’s role in the insurgency?”
There was another long silence. Then Basim began to smile. “You really don’t know?” he asked contemptuously.
“I’m asking the questions here, asshole,” I shouted. “Who does Muhammad Ibrahim report to?”
“Who do you think?” he sneered.
“Don’t fuck with me, Basim. Answer the question.”
“He reports to the president,” he said, knowing full well the impact that his statement would have.
I felt my gut lurch. For the first time, I had established a direct link between Muhammad Ibrahim and Saddam. I took a step back and gave Basim a long hard stare. He glared back, as if daring me to call him a liar. The fact was, I believed him. However else the driver was trying to deceive me, there was no reason for him to connect his old boss to Saddam Hussein. We had turned a corner and we both knew it.
“So Muhammad Ibrahim reports to the president,” I repeated as calmly as I could. “Who reports to Muhammad Ibrahim?”
“They all do.” Basim answered as if he could hardly be bothered with such an obvious question.
“Who is ‘they’?” I pressed.
“Everyone,” he replied. “They all work for him.”
“Who does he give orders to? Who sees him face-to-face?”
“Only a few,” Basim replied. “Mostly his brother Radman. He was in charge of Baghdad and Tikrit and places in the west.”
“Radman is dead, Basim. Give me someone who is still breathing.”
I took a deep breath. The information was coming rapidly now. It was as if I had turned on a spigot in Basim’s brain. Once I’d tapped it, the names and places came pouring out and in the next few minutes Basim revealed the primary insurgency leaders in both Fallujah and Samarra. “They are in charge,” he said and I detected a note of pride in his voice, as if he was pleased to know these important men.
“What do you mean in charge?” I asked. “What are they in charge of?”
“All the attacks,” he replied. “They take their orders from Muhammad Ibrahim. Then he pays them.”
“How much?”
Basim’s tone was still arrogant. “I always had a few hundred thousand dollars in my trunk,” he said. “Muhammad Ibrahim would give it out as he needed to.”
I looked at the terp. “Did you get that number right?” I asked.
Jimmy nodded. “Hundreds of thousands of dollars,” he repeated. “He’s talking about U.S. dollars, sir.”
As with bringing up Saddam, Basim was sending me a signal by talking about such huge sums of money. This was serious business being done by serious people with a serious purpose. I was way past the point of interrogating low-level detainees who’d been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. This wasn’t about informants interested only in turning a quick profit. Despite the enormous risk it posed, arresting Basim was the breakthrough I’d been waiting for. I was on the inside now, getting a firsthand look at the insurgency and the men who had ordered the deaths of thousands of Americans and Iraqis.
“Where is Muhammad Ibrahim now?” I asked Basim directly. If he was telling the truth about everything else, maybe he’d give me the answer to the single most important question I had.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “But perhaps I can help you find him.”
“Basim,” I said, heaving an exaggerated sigh. “You’re not going anywhere until Muhammad Ibrahim is sitting where you’re sitting. As soon as you understand that, we can make some progress.”
He looked at me and I could see all the arrogance draining away. The situation had finally sunk in. “I understand,” he said softly.
“Good. Now, where does Muhammad Ibrahim sleep?”
“He was staying at his family farm on the other side of the river after the war.”
“Is he still there?”
He shook his head. “It was raided by the Americans. One of his cousins was captured. He never went back. Since this summer he was always with Thamir Al-Asi and Abu Drees.”
“He slept at the house of Abu Drees?”
“I cannot say for sure. He would have me drop him off in the New Oja neighborhood at night and he would tell me to pick him up the next morning at a market or a tea shop or the cement store that he owned with Thamir Al-Asi. They would play dominoes there.”
“Basim,” I said, locking onto his eyes. “Where do I go to find him now?”
“There is a man,” he replied. “They were working together. His name is Abu Sofian.”
“Who is Abu Sofian?”
“In Samarra he is responsible for every attack and bombing.” I could hear the admiration in his voice. I was impressed myself. Over the past several months, American soldiers were constantly getting lit up in Samarra. It was one of the most dangerous places in the entire country.
“So where does this Abu Sofian live?”
He shook his head. “He is dead, mister. He died a few weeks ago.”
“I told you Basim. I don’t need dead people.”
“Mister, Muhammad Ibrahim thought I was the reason Abu Sofian was killed. He never trusted me after that.”
“So how are you going to gain his trust back, Basim?”
“Mister, I just didn’t want you to arrest me. I have not seen Muhammad Ibrahim since Abu Sofian was killed.”
“Did you get him killed?”
“No. But Muhammad Ibrahim was so angry he needed to blame someone.”
I sat down in front of him, almost knee to knee. “Let’s take this from the top. How many children does Muhammad Ibrahim have?”
“He had a son who is eighteen years old. There are three younger children. And his wife had a baby three months ago.”
This was useful information. Muhammad Ibrahim had family obligations. With so many mouths to feed, he would have to maintain contact in some way to make sure his children were being cared for. “Where does his wife live?” I asked.
“At her father’s house, here in Tikrit. She sent the children to live with relatives.”
“Where in Tikrit does she live?”
He laughed. “In Old Oja,” he replied. “The Americans have barricaded the neighborhood. He feels safe with her there.”
“Does Muhammad Ibrahim come to see her?”
“Mister, I told you. Your soldiers guard it. There is no way he can come. But perhaps they meet somewhere else. Maybe you will find him at his farm. Or…” he paused.
“Or what?”
“There is a prostitute that Muhammad Ibrahim sometimes visits,” he told me. I could see his reluctance to admit his old boss’s preference for hookers. “Perhaps he is staying there.”
“All right,” I said. “Who else do I need to know about?”
He thought for a moment. He was either trying to remember other names or trying to find a way to avoid revealing them to me. But that option had already been closed out. He knew it and I knew it. He had already given me more than enough information to get him killed by the insurgents. There was no reason to stop now. We were the only ones that could keep him alive.
Basim went on to tell me about a driver who had taken over the job as Muhammad Ibrahim’s chauffeur after Basim had been arrested. “And Muhammad Ibrahim has a younger brother,” he added, almost as an afterthought.