The 56th Man (38 page)

"Playing cards with pictures of the Iraqis
most wanted by the Coalition. Baathists and members of the
Revolutionary Command Council.”

"Officially, these are called ‘personality
identification playing cards’. Fifty-five of them, including a few
Jokers. I can't begin to remember all of them. Quite frankly, I
have difficulty with all these Arab and Persian and what-all names,
anyway. But I can't remember all of our Presidents, either, and
there's only forty-three of those." He shuffled the deck. "Are you
familiar with flash cards?"

"Our teachers used them when I was a child,"
said Ghaith.

"Good." He drew out a card and held it up,
his thumb covering the name at the bottom. "What can you tell me
about this guy?"

"A nobody. Barzan Ibrahim Hasan al-Tikriti.
Presidential Advisor. He was captured by the Americans. Being tried
for crimes against humanity. He’s the former president’s
half-brother, so he’ll probably get his throat scissored.”

“
And this?”

“
A nobody. Tariq Aziz.
Deputy Prime Minister.”

The colonel flipped the card over. “Oh yeah,
this was the guy on TV all the time during the run-up.” He took out
another card.

“
A nobody. Izzat Ibrahim
al-Duri. Vice Chairman of the Revolutionary Command
Council.”

Another card.

“
A real nobody. My last
boss. Mahmoud Diab al-Ahmed, Minister of the Interior. Last I saw
of him was in 2003, when he was standing next to that other fool,
Mohammed Sa'eed al-Sahhaf, the Information Minister. He was
shouting like an idiot. He was going to bring down the U.S. Army
with a knife and a Kalashnikov. He’s in jail now."

“
You said he was your
boss?”

“
The police were under the
Ministry of the Interior. Still are.”

“
You were a
policeman?”

“
Just an ordinary
cop.”

“
I doubt that, but since
that’s the most you’ve said about yourself so far, I’ll let it rest
for the moment.”

The colonel tried out a couple dozen more
cards on Ghaith before growing bored. He rested the stack on the
desk. "That's pretty impressive, Mr. Ibrahim. To tell you the
truth, I'm half-convinced that you were a ranking Baathist or RCC
official." The colonel tapped the deck with a letter opener shaped
like a sword. "For all I know, you're another Joker. The 56th man.
But so long as you're not in the cards, that's clearance enough.
That is, if you're useful enough. And that must be true, because
the MNF-I Commander himself says it's so. There's just one more
formality we need to go through before we proceed."

The colonel appeared to have nothing else to
say. They were waiting for someone with more authority. Ghaith
suspected it would be a high-ranking member of the embassy staff.
He took out his cigarettes.

"Can't do that here," the colonel
shrugged.

Ghaith stared at him, but did not feel like
arguing and put the pack away. He stood and walked over to the
window. There it was, Saddam's famous swimming pool, gloriously
blue and a sure magnet for overheated members of the Coalition and
the embassy.

"The imams would have a field day with this,"
Ghaith said with slangy expertise. The colonel came up next to him
and immediately understood.

"Men and women swimming together." He gave a
small cough. "Maybe we can't smoke indoors, but there are other
consolations."

Ghaith looked beyond the pool to a group of
groundskeepers near the orange grove. "You have many Iraqi
civilians here."

"Mostly Shia. Does that bother you?"

"Not in the least." Ghaith noticed that one
of the workers was watching the palace as he pretended to trim a
hedge. Even at this distance he looked familiar.

"Colonel, I think there will be a major
rocket attack on the palace within the next fifteen minutes."

The colonel snorted. "I don't think anyone
can be that useful." Then he hesitated. "How would you know--"

"I saw at least five former inmates of Abu
Ghraib on my way in here."

"In the Green Zone?"

"And they saw me."

"You think they would launch an attack
because of you?" The colonel's inner mantra faltered. "Just who the
hell are you, really?"

"The man everyone wants dead, it appears,"
Ghaith said calmly.

There was a knock and the office door opened.
A lightly-complected, middle-aged man with sleepy eyes walked in.
Ghaith cocked his brow in surprise. The colonel, too, was taken
aback.

"Mr. Ambassador, I didn't know you were
coming."

"General Casey is giving this high priority.
I thought I would come in person." He looked at Ghaith. "This is
the man?"

Ghaith had been too preoccupied keeping his
head attached to his shoulders to pay much attention to current
events. He had heard mention of the new ambassador, but he fully
expected him to be on his way as quickly as his predecessor. Iraq
was as much a swampy armpit for career diplomats as it was for
everybody else. There was no need to keep track of these token
whisps from the other side of the world.

Only the latest ambassador was more neighbor
than foreigner. He was a farce, a joke, a pusillanimous trick. In
short, an Afghan. He might have obliged the Americans with the
requisite forms and pledges and kowtows, but in Ghaith’s eyes he
was a peasant to the core.

"Tse ghalti shewey da!"
he complained in Pashto
.

“
No mistake,” said the
ambassador with a gentle nod. “Be assured, I am not a
Pashtun.
Ze la Amerika."
He
extended his hand
.

A firm, cold handshake to show what a good
American he is.

Ghaith saw no option but to take the
proffered hand, which he did in the most cursory manner
possible.

The colonel was displeased that Ghaith's
opinion of the ambassador was so obviously negative.

"Mr. Ambassador, if you would take a seat..."
The colonel gestured gracefully at a divan against the wall. Then
he pointed at the straight-backed chair and told Ghaith, "Sit."

Ghaith had been raised in a culture where
insults were avenged with knives and guns. But he had also trained
himself to swallow insults from superiors who handed them out in
malevolent abundance. At the moment, the colonel was his superior.
He sat.

"I believe Mr. Ibrahim has been advised on
the details of the proposal," said the colonel as he lowered
himself behind his desk.

"So have I," said the ambassador. "It
presents grave problems."

"Then it can't be done?" the colonel asked,
pleased by the prospect.

"You're asking that an Iraqi citizen be sent
to the United States, where he will be established in a safe haven.
From this haven, he will be providing information on possible
threats to security in his homeland."

"I understand the complications," the colonel
nodded. "You would need to get the cooperation of the Department of
Justice. This isn't exactly their bailiwick. Uh...their cup of tea?
Anyway, it's not as if Mr. Ibrahim is a Mafia don or drug lord.
Witness Protection was set up solely for the domestic environment,
I believe. But if it's a matter of payment, we can shake out
funding from those frozen oil workers’ union accounts."

Saddam Hussein had outlawed unions. The
American pro-consul had outlawed unions. Now that he was gone, the
workers had celebrated their new freedom by unionizing. The Iraqi
government had promptly banned them and frozen their assets.

"It's not funding or our bureaucracy that
worries me, colonel," said the ambassador. "Iraq is now a sovereign
nation. We would need their approval for this, and any information
we received from this gentleman would have to be shared--" The
ambassador stopped when he saw Ghaith looking at his watch. "Are we
keeping you from a pressing engagement?"

"Mr. Ibrahim predicted a rocket attack within
fifteen minutes," the colonel grinned, and pointed at the clock on
the wall. "That was at eleven-hundred hours. It's now
eleven-thirteen and counting."

The ambassador's sad eyes showed no humor.
"If there is a rocket attack in a few minutes, I certainly hope you
had no part in arranging it."

"And get myself blown up?" Ghaith said.

"We encounter martyrs for the cause every
day."

"But in this case, to what point?"

The ambassador dwelled on this a moment, then
nodded. "I see your logic."

"Mr. Ibrahim has also requested asylum for
his wife and son. I understand his wife is an invalid. This might
prove an unwarranted drain on the resources of the state."

Ghaith went still. He watched the colonel
narrowly.

"Of course, we understand that his family
will be put at increased risk if his activities are exposed. It so
happens that the government of Iceland has kindly offered to take
in--"

Ghaith stood.

"No, please, Mr. Ibrahim," said the colonel,
raising his hands. "Think about it. If you were found out, and the
Fedayeen contacted one of their friends in the States, do you
really want your family with you if they come knocking?"

Ghaith thought about this, and sat back
down.

"Now, I still have some further--" The
colonel stopped when the ambassador nodded. "You have a question
for the applicant, sir?"

Ghaith had not heard himself referred to as
an 'applicant' before. It made him sound like one of those
thousands of Iraqis who had hovered around the Red Zone in the
early days, waiting for the Americans to employ them. Only in that
case, you were considered lucky to get as much as an application,
let alone an interview with someone with the authority to hire you.
Casting aside ethnic, tribal and religious origins, the insurgency
was as simple as massive unemployment combined with equally massive
access to weapons.

But Ghaith had not formally applied for
asylum. He had glumly listened to officers balance the tremendous
bonus he represented alongside a past that remained largely
unknown. Was he more risk than asset? Ghaith's presence in the
Republican Palace was evidence of their conclusion. But the
military could not provide the final word.

"I've been told that you have the remarkable
ability to stroll down the streets of Sadr City and identify
enemies of the state," said the ambassador.

"Many of the insurgents--are we allowed to
use that word, yet? 'Insurgents'?"

"We will, eventually," the ambassador sighed.
"Please continue."

"Many of them were prisoners under the old
regime. Not political prisoners. Riffraff who would do anything for
money."

"Including blowing themselves up?"

"Most certainly. Their families benefit. And
being good Muslims, they don't actually believe that they're
dying...in the usual manner."

"Over 100,000 prisoners were released before
the war, with this very situation in mind. How many of those
inmates do you remember?"

"Very few."

The colonel leaned forward. "What's
that?"

"It's only when I see them that I
remember."

"Human mnemonics," the ambassador smiled.

"Did you see one of those former prisoners
outside the window a few minutes ago?"

"Hazem Rasheed of the Dulaym tribe.
Imprisoned for various petty crimes. He's a country boy from
al-Anbar, near the Syrian border. He was one of Abu Mousab
al-Zarqawi’s jihadi foot soldiers before you blew him up last
week."

"Whoa!" the colonel almost shouted, with a
trace of glee. "That's all post-liberation."

"I've kept tabs on some of our former guests
of the state."

The euphemism did not go down well with
either interviewer. Ghaith could see no way to tactfully withdraw
it.

“
That’s beside the point,
Colonel. This man is saying you have a member of al-Qaeda in Iraq
just outside your window. That’s a rather extreme claim. Perhaps
you should look into it when we’re finished here.”

“
I’ll do that.”

The ambassador leaned forward on the divan.
"Were you ever involved in the torture of prisoners?"

"No," Ghaith answered.

"But you knew prisoners were being
tortured?"

"We all did. By 'all', I include the man on
the street. Amnesty International knew, which means the whole world
knew."

"Eleven twenty-seven hours," the colonel
observed. "Your rocket attack is running behind schedule."

"Colonel..." The ambassador was already
famous for negotiating compromises, and with that single word
managed to quell the ire of the American soldier and Iraqi
civilian, both of whom eased back in their chairs, a little. The
ambassador turned to Ghaith. "You've been working for us for a
year, now."

"A year and a half," Ghaith amended.

"And you're still alive. I've written to the
Secretary to advise her that I fear for my own Iraqi staff members,
that they can't go home at night without the risk of being murdered
or kidnapped. And yet you managed to survive..."

"Playing both sides," said the colonel.

"Wouldn't you do whatever it takes to keep
yourself and your family alive, Colonel?" said the ambassador
without taking his eyes from Ghaith. "I've also been advised that
casualties have been reduced dramatically in any unit where you
have been posted. You're credited with saving quite a few of our
soldiers' lives."

Ghaith nodded in acknowledgement.

"However, your recent behavior has been
counter-productive to your own safety."

"A ski mask is insufferably hot in 120
weather."

"I can imagine. But what about your
family?"

"They are staying at Ibn Sina Hospital."

"Yes, your wife. That was a dreadful
accident."