Authors: Claude Schmid
“Zanac!” Moose called.
Zanac didn’t move or speak.
Moose reoriented the side of his body towards the Iraqi he’d knocked down, minimizing his own profile, and kept his gun pointed at him.
Who was this guy?
Was he connected to the attack? Suicide vests had been used in secondary attacks following IEDs. Something hard on his chest. Could it be a suicide vest? Had to immediately communicate with him. Search him. Moose then scanned his surroundings, wanting to make sure this wasn’t a diversion. Cuebas moved closer to Zanac.
The suspicious Iraqi lay on his back on the street, holding his hands and arms up over his chest as if blocking body punches. Denial and confusion radiated from his face. His eyes were a dull slate gray, like river stones. He mumbled something in a voice laced with either fear or fanaticism.
Moose couldn’t see anything bulky under the man’s shirt. But he’d seen remarkably thin bomb vests, neatly constructed by hand from slivers of plastic explosives and a layer of nails and ball bearings: a devil-tailored vest. He watched the man closely, alert to any movement of his hands that might suggest he was reaching for a detonator or a weapon.
“How’s Zanac?” Moose yelled to Cuebas, without taking his eyes off the man who had run into him.
Cuebas did look back at Zanac, who still hadn’t moved.
Fuck!
Couldn’t use him to translate. Anger steamed inside Cuebas. They had to immediately search this man somehow.
“Ayeee. Demo it,” Cuebas shouted an idea that came to his mind, suggesting Moose demonstrate the necessary searching and get the Iraqi to mimic him.
“OK.”
Moose reached down and grabbed the man’s shirt and pulled him up to the standing position. He then pointed at the detainee, his fingers nearly in the man’s face.
“You watch me. Do what I do!” Moose shouted, aware that it was unlikely the man understood what he said. Perhaps the visual demonstration would penetrate the man somehow.
Moose suddenly realized that if this man had a suicide vest they urgently needed more distance between him and them.
“Get space. Get space!” Moose shouted, and began running backwards. “Might have a bomb!”
He cursed himself under his breath. He should have realized this earlier.
The Americans backed off, 20 feet, then 30, then more, keeping their guns pointed at the Iraqi. Seeing them move, the man started mumbling faster. Cuebas took a kneeling position inside a doorway jutting out slightly, shielding himself against the wall. Moose continued standing in the middle of the road, facing the Iraqi, maybe 50 feet now separating them.
“You! Look at me. Follow me!” Moose shouted at the Iraqi. Between the shouts Moose clinched his teeth so hard he thought he might crack one.
The man in the blue shirt still didn’t move. He stood frozen, his hands fixed several inches from his chest as if he was studying his fingernails. His mouth quivered.
Moose demonstrated exactly what he wanted the man to do. First, he raised both his arms outward, away from the body, as if he would fly. The Iraqi copied Moose’s moves compliantly. Moose had a feeling that this man had been searched like this before. He followed along almost too easily. Next Moose put both hands on top of his head. Then, with his right hand and arm, Moose reached inward across his chest, opened a pocket with that hand, imitated taking contents out of the pocket, and dropping them to the ground. The Iraqi appeared to understand, and promptly did the same with his front shirt pocket. He dropped a folded paper and a pen to the ground, then, from the other pocket, a small hard piece of plastic fell out.
Moose, from 50 feet away, stared at the piece of plastic. A cell phone.
The man followed Moose’s movements nervously, imitating, conducting a self-search as Moose led him through it. Once the self-search was finished, Moose signaled for the man to put his hands back on his head. Was the cell phone what he had felt when he pushed the man?
He had contacted something hard. It may have been small. The phone had been in a chest pocket about where Moose’s forearm made contact. But why was he running?
“Looks clean so far,” Cuebas commented, residual suspicion riding his voice.
“Check around us. Anything going on?”
“Ayeee.” Cuebas quickly scanned the nearby buildings.
Moose wanted a closer search of this man. He had to be sure. A small crowd of Iraqis had assembled near them and watched cautiously. Moose eyed them but continued what he was doing. He checked Zanac, who hadn’t moved.
“Watch him close. I’m going to put ‘hands on’ now!”
Moose hurried over to the Iraqi, positioning himself 45 degrees away from the detainee. If the man did have a bomb, he could blow both of them to Kingdom Come. Moose ignored this thought.
He needed to make physical contact again to prove it one way or the other. Putting his hands on the Iraqi, he spun the man around so his back was to Moose’s front. Cuebas moved away from the wall, moving around the action, ensuring that Moose’s body never got between him and the detainee.
Moose began sweeping the Iraqi’s body with a flat hand, beginning at his head. “Like this. Like this,” Moose said loudly, showing the man how he wanted his hands interlaced on his head.
Then Moose checked around the man’s shirt collar, sweeping his hands down the man’s chest and around his back, feeling for anything hard and hidden, like wires. He felt nothing strange. Moose ran his hands down over the man’s waist and around his hips. He kicked the man’s foot, signaling for the Iraqi to spread his feet apart. Moose put his hand between the man’s buttocks and legs, reaching in front, and dragging the back of his hand back through the Iraqi’s spread legs, checking for anything hidden in the groin area. Moose felt the ridged zipper, the baggy material folding in as he identified the man’s privates. Then Moose checked the man’s legs. Using both his hands he walked them down the length of the man’s legs. First the right, then the left.
Nothing. The man still seemed clean. Moose crouched, patting down the man’s lower legs and ankles. Then Moose stood up and backed away. He made a motion to remove his boot, tilting his head toward the Iraqi, signaling to him to remove his shoes.
A bomb in his shoe?
The man complied without hesitation. Moose kicked one shoe and bent forward to look at the other. Nothing in the shoes. Nothing strange.
Why did this man run?
Nothing on him.
Fear? Just trying to leave the scene?
No way to be sure. Had they overreacted?
Suddenly Cooke appeared at the street end.
“Let’s go! We’re leaving,” Cooke shouted, waving for them to come back.
Cuebas and Moose had to make a split-second decision.
“Zanac!” Moose shouted. “Zanac!”
The terp finally bolted up from the street, as if he was scared of being left behind. A mixture of fear and embarrassment shadowed his face. Maybe he’d now do what Moose wanted.
Cooke disappeared around the corner of the building again.
“Get his name and address! Right now. Get it! Then we go,” said Moose.
“We can’t take him. No shit on him,” Cuebas declared.
“I know. We get his info. At least we’ll have that.”
Cooke was at the end of the street again and now jogged towards them. He stopped about 30 feet away. “What you got?” He saw their guns pointed at the Iraqi.
“Nothing,” said Cuebas. “We’re coming.”
“OK. Do it!” Cooke turned and left.
Zanac got the man’s name and address. Then they let him go. They had nothing on him—apparently a false alarm.
“What the fuck was he doing?” Moose asked Zanac about the suspect, as they hustled back to the rest of the platoon.
Zanac answered softly, like a man preferring to be unnoticed.
“He say he running to tell mother about bomb.”
The platoon had done what it could at the bombing site. They’d assessed the damage, determined roughly where the center of the blast had been, and taken a number of pictures. Wynn would do a full report later. HQ would decide whether more study was useful. An Iraqi ambulance had arrived. Other injured left in family cars—
all
departed for the nearest Iraqi Hospital. Families continue to sort through body parts on the street. The crowd steadily increased, and the Wolfhounds had difficulty keeping Iraqis away from their Humvees.
Wynn called CPT Baumann, filled him in on the situation, and got permission to continue other missions. Baumann also informed him of a company leaders meeting tonight at 1930. After consulting with Cooke and agreeing on next steps, the Wolfhounds departed for the school and the meeting with Sheikh Jassim. No time for census work today.
Cengo phoned Jassim to confirm everything. Driving away, Wynn felt like he was departing hell.
Nobody was at the school when the Wolfhounds arrived. No Albadi. No students. Soon Jassim’s man arrived in an older BMW. As a precaution, Wynn told Cengo to have the guide explain the route to the house, so he could observe the man for a few minutes in order to assess whether he might be deceiving them. The man described the route without evident dissimulation, so the platoon followed him.
By the time the Wolfhounds reached Jassim’s place, it was 1500. Wynn decided he could spend a maximum of 45 minutes there. If the platoon stayed longer, he risked missing his appointment back with the S2 and Manah. He needed to lock eyes with Manah again to determine whether there’d been any collusion between the contractor and whoever shot the boy. However, after two days of considering the matter, he doubted that Manah was involved. Manah had too much to lose. Nevertheless, double-dealing could offer a prosperous life, Wynn knew; perhaps Manah had been threatened and forced to cooperate. Something about the contractor bothered him. Anybody who wore silk suits as Manah did was doing well. He dressed nothing like the small-time contractors Wynn knew back home. The man, at a minimum, must be affiliated with what the Iraqis had for Mafia. But first Wynn had to deal with Sheikh Jassim, another special character.
Wynn was bothered by the insufficient time. Iraqis never worked fast, especially Iraqis who thought highly of themselves. He had met Jassim once before, about three months earlier at a tribal sheikh conference. Jassim had a reputation for being a big talker. Someone had described him as “thinking he had a natural right to dominate people.” No conversation with such a man could be short. Wynn would have to think of ways to accelerate the talk, to get to the point. He wasn’t sure—nobody was sure—whether Jassim was a legitimate tribal sheikh, or an up-and-coming businessman who had taken on the aura of an influential person. Jassim, too, had more than a touch of Mafia about him. His thriving trucking business was known to control a substantial part of the transport business running kerosene and other fuels from area distribution points. Much of the product he ran was probably illegally obtained. Jassim supposedly had numerous property holdings in the city and had acquired considerable power, reputation, and resources—what the Iraqis called
wasta
, or clout.
Perhaps Jassim could help. Living barely three kilometers from where the sniper attack happened, he might conclude he’d be well served to cooperate with the Americans, if only to get attention off the neighborhood. If the sheikh was operating an illegal smuggling business, he wouldn’t want Americans nosing about. Even if he didn’t know where the family was, he might know who would or could find out. Wynn suspected that Jassim—like many of the sheikhs—illicitly balanced cooperation with both the Americans and insurgency groups. For an Iraqi of means, it was just too damn hazardous to stand firmly with any one group. Nobody liked to walk the edge of fire. Survival always trumped.
Jassim lived in an ornately walled compound masked with a look of heavy formality, like what might pass for a mausoleum back in the States. Wynn saw Arabic words black spray-painted on the wall. It looked like punk vandalism. Cengo told him it said: “Vote.”
The election had been months ago. Since the graffiti was still on the walls of the sheikh’s compound, he either didn’t care about it, or supported the sentiment. It didn’t seem right.
Reports said many sheikhs, particularly the Sunnis, had not supported the recent election. Sunnis believed they had a natural right to rule, and since they were a minority, worried that elections undermined their rights. Many sheikhs boycotted the elections because they feared a loss of traditional privilege. Even Saddam had struggled with the sheikhs. He had bribed some and persecuted others. America’s invasion, and the consequent collapse of government authority, had increased the sheikhs’ influence.
Barbed wire, probably stolen Coalition wire, lined the top of Jassim’s compound wall. A shiny green wrought-iron gate barred the main entrance. Jassim’s security guards milled about, unconcerned, looking more as if they were high in the stands of an uncompetitive sports event than guarding an important man’s property. A balding burly man with glasses and a large birthmark on his cheek promptly opened the gate for Wynn and his security escort. No delay. No questions.
Once inside, Wynn’s party was taken through a small clean foyer that smelled like fresh oranges, and on into a sitting room. Seated, Wynn noticed elegant inlaid tile work on the floor and walls. Jassim was clearly not afraid of being labeled ostentatious. Wynn could see his own reflection in the polished tile to his front: his hair slicked from perspiration and the corrosion around his eyes evidence of weariness or stoicism or both.
After two minutes, Jassim rushed in. “Sorry, sorry,” he apologized. “I very busy. My business dealings are many, and have many friends,” he said, with artificial shame, a patriarchal smile spliting his face.
The men shook hands vigorously.
Conversation started immediately. Jassim’s English, Wynn had forgotten, was articulate and crisp. He’d also forgotten Jassim’s mutilated ear. The Iraqis’ left earlobe hung from his head like a bizarre Christmas ornament: a knot of flesh the size of a cherry dangled from a shriveled pink strip of skin. As a young Army officer in the Iran-Iraq war, Jassim was wounded and nearly died in a hospital due to poor medical care. He then vocally criticized the Saddam regime for the poor care. Jassim was imprisoned, accused of being a spy, and tortured. His imprisoners, in a masochistic rage one day, took wire clippers to his ear. He wore the scarred ear now like a badge of honor.