Entering the room, Wynn was stunned by the appearance of the sandal-wearer. He looked like a massive scared blowfish: beady small silver eyes, grossly engorged body. Fiftyish, he wore thick rimless glasses, a stained dishdasha the size of a tent, and sweated profusely. Turnbeck introduced him as Banah Kassam. Kassam struggled to get up as Cengo translated formal introductions. The effort to rise proved so difficult that Wynn signaled for him to remain seated. Compromising, the fat man nevertheless reached up to shake hands from a seated position. His handshake was soft and unstable, like touching Jello.
The room had no extra chairs. Turnbeck offered to get up so Wynn could sit. Wynn waved him off.
“Continue,” Wynn told Turnbeck. “You’re doing fine.”
“Mr. Kassam completed the questionnaire a minute ago, Sir. Zanac has it, and is reviewing the answers with me,” Turnbeck said.
Zanac, the extra terp assigned to the platoon today to help with the census, knelt next to Kassam and held the questionnaire in his hands.
“Thank you for completing the questionnaire. Anything else you would like to add?” Turnbeck asked Kassam.
From where he stood, Wynn could see the Arabic writing, neat and measured, in each section of the questionnaire. He looked at Kassam again, still amazed at the bulk of the man. A man this huge was nearly immobile and surely unhealthy. He appeared perpetually out of breath, heaving like a bellows with air intake. His teeth were yellowish with thick plaque, and he had a large black mole on his ample upper lip that rolled like a bean whenever he moved his mouth. Kassam smiled broadly at Wynn, but was clearly nervous and insecure.
Kassam hadn’t answered Turnbeck’s last question. He looked hesitant. Wynn suspected he might be unwilling to share more than the bare minimum necessary to get the soldiers out of his home.
“Would he like to add something?” Turnbeck tried again. Kassam remained quiet.
Sensing indecision, Wynn intervened.
“Tell him we are sorry to have come into his home,” Wynn said in as non-threatening a manner as he could muster, wanting to reduce any additional tension caused by his arrival on the scene.
“Our purpose here, as he knows from the questionnaire we asked him to fill out, is to collect this information so that we and the Iraqi government better understand the people living here.”
Cengo translated. The fat man did not reply, but kept smiling, making no indication he wanted to volunteer anything, nodding his head every few seconds, looking back and forth from Wynn to whoever translated.
“We thank you for your cooperation. We would like to know how you think we can help.”
Finally Kassam started to speak, but immediately hesitated again, breathing deeply.
“Can he talk?” Wynn asked Turnbeck.
“Yes Sir, he spoke a few times to us already.”
“Ask him if he feels security in the neighborhood is better now or six months ago,” Wynn told Cengo, putting a slightly different twist on one of the preprinted questions.
The man finally answered, in a raspy voice, that he felt security conditions were unchanged and still dangerous, but that he was pleased to see growth in the Iraqi Security Forces.
This answer pleased Wynn. It suggested the population was aware of the increased efforts to build up the Iraqi Security Forces. Confidence in those forces would be critical for the new Iraq.
“What did he put down on the questionnaire for profession?” Wynn asked.
“Taxi Driver,” Zanac answered, after looking for that answer on the paper.
Wynn was surprised by that answer. The size of the man made it hard to envision him driving a taxi, or even getting into a car without great effort.
“Does he still own a taxi?”
Zanac asked the Iraqi.
“No.”
“When did he last drive a taxi?”
“This Friday, going to Mosque,” Zanac translated Kassam’s answer.
“Whose taxi was it?” Wynn persisted, doubting the taxi story. Did this man really drive taxis?
A shadow passed the hall window. Wynn glanced in that direction, but saw nothing.
“He say he not know. He say he just get in taxi to go to mosque,” Zanac said.
“How long was he a taxi driver?”
When this question was translated, the fat man shuffled his feet, and rubbed his wrinkled forehead. Zanac repeated the question.
The fat man answered. “It maybe ten minutes to the mosque.”
“No, I mean if he was or is a taxi driver, how long did he drive a taxi? For how many years?” Wynn tried again, putting emphasis in his words in a way to make his question clearer.
Wynn continued to project the warmest smile he could, conscious that the image he represented might be what this man remembered about Americans.
“He say he never drove taxi. He say he ride taxi.” Cengo translated.
“Then why did he say he was a taxi driver? I don’t understand,” Wynn said, unsure.
Cengo spoke with Kassam for maybe a minute. Kassam listened patiently, then responded, his tone of voice unchanged.
“Oh,” Cengo said, looking at Wynn, “that mistake. Kassam say that his brother drive taxi. He himself not work. I think he little embarrassed by that. So he mean his brother, when he say that on the paper.” Cengo pointed to the census form.
Wynn nodded, understanding.
“Please tell him that we want to be sure all the information is accurate. Only with accurate information can it be helpful to us. Does the brother live in this house?” Wynn turned to Turnbeck. “How many names did he put down as living in this house?”
“He say ‘no,’” Cengo reported.
Zanac answered, “Six.”
Kassam spoke again, looking at Cengo. He probably sensed now that Cengo was the more important translator.
Cengo grunted and said, “The brother is in Maiarad, he say. The brother is only one in family with paying job right now. That why he put this down on census paper.”
Wynn considered the response. He smiled again at Kassam, and nodded his head. Was Kassam’s answer suspicious? Probably not. It was plausible. The man, if not entirely candid, might well be correct that the census question—what kind of work does the head of household do for income?—left room for interpretation. That’s why his soldiers had to review answers with the home occupants. Americans, too, got confused by legalistic questions. Wynn thought about telling Kassam that he didn’t like paperwork either, to put him at greater ease, but decided against it.
“Ask Mr. Kassam if he himself worked in recent years, and if so, what his profession is.”
Cengo asked.
Kassam sank even lower, and the mole on his lip rolled around like a marble on a table. He answered slowly, the rasp in his voice more intense.
Cengo asked another question. The fat man responded again, subdued, but with a lengthier answer. Wynn and Turnbeck waited.
Cengo turned to Wynn and explained, “He say his father was partner in business exporting Iraqi dates for many year. The business close down five year ago because big problem with Saddam government. His father now dead. Die two year ago. His mother, she die four months after. The family poor now. Now he poor. He cannot work because his bad health. His brother, the taxi driver, support the six living here.”
“OK,” Wynn said, appreciating the Iraqi’s answer. “Tell him that we have taken enough of his time, and we thank him. And tell him I’ve enjoyed Iraqi dates. They have excellent flavor.”
Cengo translated hastily, and Wynn put his hand on Cengo’s arm, signaling him to correctly finish what he had said. It was important that Cengo show due respect to the LNs, since the terps represented the Wolfhounds’ public face.
“And tell him that I am sorry for his family business,” Wynn continued. “I hope that one day it will recover.” Then Wynn pointed to the chunky boy they had met at the entrance, who had been standing in the room doorway listening to the conv
ersation. “Is that your son?”
Kassam, breathing with difficulty, said warily that the boy was his nephew, and that the boy’s father had been killed by Saddam during a Shia uprising in the south. Kassam held his folded arms tightly around his chest, as if he was trying to protect his heart.
Wynn started to say something else, but halted, considering whether to explore that story further. He wished to end the visit on an uplifting note if he could. This family, like so many Iraqi families, clearly had many burdens to shoulder. Duty had required the Wolfhounds to enter this man’s home and ask personal questions. The Iraqi had cooperated and told them something of his family. Wynn knew that Kassam had no idea what the Americans would do with this information. The most important thing the Americans could ever convey was that they really wanted to help.
“Maybe this boy will one day run a date farming business again,” Wynn said.
14
By noon, Wynn decided the platoon had completed enough census work for the day. It had taken three hours to obtain questionnaires from 23 households—not enough, but it probably sufficed to keep headquarters happy. He wanted to get back to Bawa Sah.
As Wynn walked back to his truck, his Iraqi cell phone rang. He reached into a pocket in the vest covering his body armor, pulled the phone out, and answered it. A man spoke rapidly in Arabic.
“Wait, please,” Wynn answered.
He called Cengo over. He could still hear the man talking on the phone as he handed it to Cengo.
“Take this call.”
Cengo took the phone, grunted something in Arabic, and then fell silent. The man on the other end spoke rapidly, and Cengo looked as if the conversation burned his ear. After a blast of information, he addressed Wynn.
“Sir, he say he have very important information. He know place you need to search.” Cengo’s voice tempo echoed the man on the phone.
Wynn looked at the terp quizzically.
“Slow down. Who? Who you talking to?”
“This Sheikh Amir,” said Cengo. “He say he know place of Takfiri.”
“What kind of place? What does he know?”
Cengo asked Amir several curt questions, then went silent again, his expression broadcasting Amir’s intensity.
“Amir say something make him very, very angry. Something Takfiri do to his friend. He say you must go this place. You be happy of it,” Cengo reported, his voice lashed by pressure.
“Happy of it?” Wynn asked, seeking clarification.
Again the language was an obstacle. Wynn looked at his watch. It was 1214. A high, white fireball sun burned remorselessly in the sky. He wiped his brow.
“Did this happen since I visited with him? How important is it we go right now?” Wynn asked, concerned about losing another opportunity to visit Bawa Sah.
Cengo, back on the phone, looked as if he was talking to a flamethrower.
Wynn sensed Amir’s dominance. Then he suddenly felt uneasy. Was Cengo being bullied to persuade the platoon to do something unnecessarily dangerous? Or was Amir passing on a valuable tip? Powerful men liked to get their way.
“He say he want revenge something. Stop something,” Cengo continued. “Something make him very angry.”
“Won’t say what?”
“No. It Takfiri, he say,” replied Cengo.
“Let me talk to him.”
Cengo handed Wynn the phone as if it was hot. The sheikh would be more respectful of him.
“Sadi, Lieutenant Wynn here, why you want us to go this place?”
“Bad place. Takfiri place. Terrorist place. Now there.”
“Terrorists there now?” Wynn asked, trying to confirm what Amir meant.
Two black birds flew low and fast across the road towards Wynn, startling him. They looked like miniature jets on a strafing run.
“Yes. Now. Go there now,” Amir said again, pleading.
Wynn’s nerves sang with anticipation. What awaited them? Should he take the word of this sheikh? Wynn had wanted to tightly manage the days’ time schedule. He’d already cut the census short. If they now went off hastily on a fruitless search, they’d lose more time.
“What’s there?” Wynn asked.
Amir started speaking in Arabic, and Wynn handed Cengo the phone again.
“Try to find out more about what is going on. I need clear information.”
Cengo spoke again with Amir. After another minute or so, he turned to Wynn.
“He say it very important. Must stop Takfiri. Bad people at this place. They do very bad thing. You not go, he say, more people hurt. He also say Takfiri there killing family to scare Iraqis, so Iraqis no want work with Americans. He say that his friend’s son is doctor that sometimes help Americans. He help American teams on medical visits to Iraqis.”
Amir was probably referring to the mobile medical clinics that Americans teams periodically set up in Iraqi neighborhoods. Iraqi doctors sometimes assisted with those. Wynn took back the phone again.
From the scratchy edge in Amir’s voice, Wynn sensed seriousness. Amir had only called him twice before. Each time Amir had asked about a previous request. Each instance had something to do with possible business opportunities. This time was different, a new side of Amir. The blend of anger and worry in his voice revealed a sincere concern Wynn had not heard before.
“What is this place?” Wynn asked Amir. The sheikh hesitated, unsure of his words, then spoke rapidly in Arabic. Wynn handed Cengo the phone again.
“Find out what he wants us to search and where it is. And ask him: how many Takfiri?”
Finding out as much as he could about the place was critical, Wynn knew. He couldn’t go in blind. Success required preparation.
Wynn keyed his radio and called Cooke, “Wolfhound Four, this is One, over.”
A short pause, then Cooke responded, “This is Four, over.”
“Meet me by my vehicle in two mikes, over.”
“Wilco.”
Cengo spoke with Amir for another minute or so, each communicating in bursts of words and grunts.
“Sir, he say his doctor friend son prisoner there. He know place this happen where Takfiri do this. This place he tell us to go now. It old warehouse. He tell me where. He say Takfiri stay there. They kill his friend son there.”
“OK. Tell him we’ll go.” Combat leadership required quick decisions. Wynn felt as if he stood on a steep muddy bank, and a swift rocky stream lay before him that he had to get across. Some decisions were made in a crucible so tight that second-guessing had to wait until later. His instincts whispered that Amir was telling him the truth. The Iraqis’ strict honor wouldn’t let him lie about something like this.
“Where is this warehouse?”
Cengo tried to explain. It was outside the Wolfhound’s sector. Wynn calculated that the place was in 1st platoon’s AO. Amir had described it as an abandoned warehouse near a cemetery, east of the Wolfhounds’ present location. Wynn thought he had heard of cemetery.
His mind now stretching, Wynn wondered whether this warehouse group was in any way involved with the school shooting.
Wynn hurried over to his vehicle and the computer map. If Cengo had a good description, the location was about a click and a half outside the Wolfhounds’ battlespace. Now another choice was necessary. He could request permission to go outside his area from CPT Bauman, or he could call Jeff Smith, the 1st platoon leader, and not let Baumann know. It wasn’t much of a choice. Wynn really wanted backup from 1st platoon if he needed it. It would be difficult to secure that without talking to Baumann. But on the other hand, Wynn wanted the mission for the Wolfhounds. He wanted the Wolfhounds to get credit if it was a significant find, and it would also help him in his relationship with Sheikh Amir. But Baumann might refuse. He might give the job to 1st platoon. On the surface, letting 1st platoon do it made sense. The Pit Bulls presumably knew the area. The Wolfhounds did not. But it was his lead, and had come to him because of their connecti
on with Amir.
Wynn called Baumann.
CPT Baumann’s radio operator said it would be a few minutes before the commander was available. In the meantime, Cooke had arrived, and Wynn briefed him.
Cooke was all over it. He said he’d put initial instructions out to the team, while Wynn waited to talk to Baumann.
Wynn had another thought, and said to Cooke, “You do that, then call first platoon. Tell them what I’m requesting, that I’m on the radio with the CO, and ask them about what they can tell you about the warehouse. If the CO gives the go ahead, I’ll come up on the net and tell the platoon what to do. Come back here after you call first platoon and we’ll discuss further.”
Time was vital. Any insurgents at the warehouse might soon be gone. Yet Wynn wanted to be deliberate. He could not risk a foolish mistake.
The short conversation with Baumann ended positively. Baumann explained that at the moment Wynn’s platoon was actually closer to the warehouse than 1st platoon. Although the warehouse was in 1st platoon’s area, today the Pit Bulls were patrolling further north, and could not react as promptly as 2nd platoon. This decided the matter.
Cooke now rehuddled with Wynn by D21. They kept the initial discussion private, wanting to settle on a plan before briefing the rest of the men. Wynn wanted simplicity and clarity, a solid plan they could execute now.
Within minutes they made a plan. They would move the platoon to a more secure place where they could dismount and draw a quick sand table—an illustration sketched on the ground—to explain the plan. Pulling the men together where they were now would be too dangerous.
The Wolfhound convoy pulled into a gravelly field often used for soccer about five clicks south of where they had been. Wynn had chosen this field because it was the largest easily accessible flat and open space distant from any buildings near to where the Wolfhounds had been that morning, and the danger from sniper fire was minimal. He and Cooke felt it safe enough to have a platoon meeting here. Even if locals saw the Wolfhounds here, it would be impossible to determine their plan. Wynn looked at his watch. It had taken about 20 minutes to get here and was now 1255. The warehouse Amir had fingered was about 3.5 kilometers southeast of this field.
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