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 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.”