Baghdad Fixer (20 page)

Sam smiles and takes hers, too. She holds it up to her curled lips and blows.

“I am just joking with you, Miss, please tell me your name again?

“Samara Katchens. People call me Sam.”

“Is that not a name for a man?”

“Sometimes.”

“Interesting for a very beautiful woman to have a man’s name.”

Sam grimaces slightly and looks at her notebook.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I hope I haven’t embarrassed you.”

She gives him what I know is an artificial smile. “Not at all.”

“We’re not used to seeing foreign women like you in our country. It’s a surreal situation, is it not, Nabil?”

I open my mouth to respond, but nod instead.

“Let me tell you why the Americans are failing here. From the very first day that Saddam disappeared and no one knew where he was, the Americans should have taken control of the city and made sure that it was secure. But instead, they let everything collapse into chaos and turned a blind eye while the criminals started looting all of the offices and villas and museums. And the banks. How are you going to stabilize a country if you can’t get its financial resources under control? That was their first mistake.”

When he stops to take a breath he notices that Sam, who has been taking notes at a quick clip, has stopped doing so. He says, “Please, write this down. The second mistake is you let this chaos continue for a long time, despite the fact that you are the most powerful country in the world and you have the best army. You just proved it. We are the most dangerous country in the Middle East and now you have conquered us. And it only took a matter of weeks! So what does that make the Iraqi people think? It makes us think that maybe the Americans do not want what’s best for us. Maybe you want us to suffer, to make us appear backwards and in need of a foreign occupier to take charge of us, because we are so out of control.

“In the meantime, you give us no indication of turning over any control of the country to a new Iraqi leader — even a temporary one! You say it’s too early. And then, in the meantime, your most senior official comes here and says that he is dissolving the entire army. No more Iraqi army. Bye-bye,” he says, kissing his hand and then sending it away.

“And then,” he continues, “all the Iraqi people should have to give up their weapons. We should have no defence at all. I wonder, can I ask you, what would happen if we tried to do that in your country? What would happen if a foreign army came to America and tried to take everyone’s gun away?” He lowers his face to try to get her to focus on his. “Well?”

Sam stops writing and looks up. “It wouldn’t go over well.”

“No. No, it wouldn’t. The problem, unfortunately for the Americans, is that they can’t win.”

Sam is trying to maintain a neutral stare, the one she gives people when she wants to refrain from reacting. “What can’t they win?” she asks. “I mean, they have won, right? President Bush said yesterday that major combat operations are over.”

Sheikh Faddel watches her for a moment. “It is very easy for them to win the war against a country like us. We are no match for American firepower. But they will never win the peace. Because the problem we have in Iraq is that we have never really been at peace unless one very strong party is in power and is, what do you call it, is dictating to the others what to do. The British realized that when they drew up the map of Iraq, and they knew we were the best candidates for being the bully, so they put us in charge.”

He laughs and shakes his head, goading me to laugh with him. “Ah, Nabil? Am I right? Look, this is only the beginning. Sunnis from other Arab countries will come and fight alongside us and say it’s a war to defend Islam. Shi’ites will come and say this is a chance to spread the revolution, to finish what began in Iran in 1979. Soon we’ll be fighting each other as much as the Americans. I’m not talking about me,” he says, patting his right hand hard on his chest. “I’m only trying to tell you how our people think. How do most people in the world behave when they stand to lose power?”

Sam isn’t writing anymore, just blinking, listening, twirling the pen in her hand.

“But I’m sure you have some other questions for me.”

“Well, this is all fascinating,” she perks up, “but yes I do. Do you know a man named General Akram?”

“Akram, of course. He was one of Saddam’s top military advisors, but he turned on the president after the Gulf War. Became convinced he could overthrow Saddam under the auspices of the Americans who ultimately did absolutely nothing to ensure the rebels’ success. That was in the early 1990s.”

“And today?” she asks.

“He was in jail for a long time, but then I heard he was released a while back. Not sure why Saddam didn’t kill him; that’s what usually happened to rebels. Whatever he’s up to, he’s got to be dancing a
dabka
now.”

I hesitate to interject, but then I do. “A
dabka
is a dance, Sam.”

“Smart man,” says Sheikh Faddel. “But then again, not so smart that he knew how not to get caught.”

The aide from earlier appears followed by three older
shiyukh
in black robes. He approaches Sheikh Faddel and then stops halfway across the room to kindly suggest that he should prepare to leave with the others. All of the
shiyukh
will be meeting a very important American military official at another house.

“May I take a few minutes to finish my discussion with the American lady?”

“As you wish. But we have been warned that the Americans like to start on time.”

I whisper this translation to Sam as they’re having the conversation. She seems very excited, but is trying to remain calm so that the others won’t notice.

“That’s pretty interesting,” she comments. “What...who? Can we come?”

“I don’t think so,” I say quietly, clearing my throat as I do. “They are not suggesting that.”

“Yeah, I know. But suggest it to them. Tell them we’d like to come.”

“But I don’t think—”

“Nabil, just
ask.”
And I can see Sam trying to catch their eyes right now and smiling, as if to warm them to the idea even before they hear it.

One of them suggests that the Americans may not allow it. Another says he’s not sure if a woman will be welcome because the Americans are meeting a group of tribal elders.

I translate these points for Sam who stares back at me bugeyed, indicating that she is both challenged and entertained.

“Well, it’s the American way for reporters to have access to government meetings. That’s what happens in a democracy. And I’m sure the Americans will have women with them, too.” She smiles at them widely now, and then back at me. “If it’s a problem, of course, I’ll leave.”

“No, no,” says one of the wrinkled men, who has the most exquisite tribal robe, the gold trimming along the black fabric as intricate as a fine necklace. “No problem. Welcome. Welcome.”

We file out briskly and pile back into Rizgar’s car and tell him to follow the other vehicles. I watch Sheikh Faddel’s convoy as they lead us past well-kept compounds divided by large patches of grassland and crops. In a few minutes, we’re on a narrow road that’s walled on both sides and suddenly Rizgar twists his head, quick and twitchy, and hisses, “What’s this? Where are they taking us?”

Rizgar’s instincts are surely what’s got Sam through Iraq safely, perhaps with the help of God, but if Rizgar is worried then I am, too. Can Sheikh Faddel be trusted? But then we crest over a slight incline and I see there are many other cars, including some rather fancy ones, and a lot of men in the same long black cloaks, and suddenly it seems perfectly clear that we’ve come upon a tribal meeting, and I can see the light fill Sam’s face like a child outside a sweet shop.

“Whoa!”
she whispers. “Our boys are definitely up to something here.” Rizgar continues to follow the convoy towards the clearing, next to the long white building where dozens of cars are already parked. “Maybe they’re trying to do a buy-out of some of the Sunni tribesmen, to stop their resistance,” says Sam. “I heard they were doing that a lot around here.”

Sheikh Faddel signals to us and we follow him. He is in the midst of a cluster of other
shiyukh
just up ahead, walking into a hall with wooden double doors large enough to be the entrance to a moderate palace. He turns back and gives us another sign, with a crick of his neck, to follow him. We mill closer. And then I’m suddenly aware that there is an unusually tall and broad-shouldered man standing in our way.

“Uh, sorry, ma’am?” He is wearing crisp, tan trousers and a light blue shirt. “You from the press?”

“Yeah. Hi.” Sam holds out her hand. “Sam Katchens from the
Tribune”

He holds his hand out in return but doesn’t seem to shake it the way I’ve seen other Americans do, and doesn’t smile. “Look, sorry, but you’ll need to leave now,” he says, glancing at her and then scanning the horizon beyond us. I notice he has a translucent piece of plastic hanging over the rim of his ear and curling into the middle of the ear itself.

“Me?” Sam points to herself like she’s not sure the man is talking to her. To me, it’s clear he is. “Well, who gets to decide whether it’s open to the press?”

“I do. And it’s closed. I suggest you leave now.”

“I’m sorry, but we’ve been invited by these people here to attend the meeting, and it’s
their
country.” Sam looks at his waistline. Is she searching for a gun? “Who are you, exactly?”

“It’s not important. We’re in charge of this area and I suggest you go right now.”

“Is this some kind of a, uh,
agency
event or something?”

He leans in a little closer to her and speaks close to her face. “Ma’am, please take your little crew, get in your car and save yourself some trouble. If you want to be covering these areas, you gotta get yourself embedded with the military.”

Sam gives him a hard stare, her lips slightly parted, her eyes darting back and forth across his face. Then she smiles. “Wow. You guys really are charming. No wonder you’re off to such a good start here.”

He stands staring back at her, his nose widening. I can feel a rattling in Sam’s breathing.

“In fact,” Sam continues, “I’m really proud of the example you just set for all these Iraqis of what American democracy is all about. Threatening a journalist and barring her from attending a big public meeting. Now
that’s
not the kind of thing that happened under Saddam, is it?”

The bulk in his upper arms tenses and he places his hands on his hips. Only then do I notice it, the pistol at his left side, the furthest from me, sitting in a holster connected to his belt.

“Ma’am, I did not threaten you.”

“Oh?” There is a shaking in Sam’s voice, but she keeps turning it into something that sounds more aggressive than scared. “Then perhaps I’ll just stay.”

“Look, all I’m saying is that if I were you, I’d want to move on. You can’t stay here, that’s all. There’s no authorization for press to be at this meeting.”

“That’s funny, because every Iraqi I talk to says there’s no authority anywhere, which is why the whole place is pretty much falling apart.” She stands straight, pulling her shoulders higher and wider, and he says nothing, his chest heaving up and down, a sign that he is growing angrier by the moment. “Good luck with your meeting,” she says.

Sam walks unhurriedly back to Rizgar’s car and I follow her. She ignores our agreement that she sit in the back, hops in the front and slams the door hard.

“The fucking nerve! Can you believe it, talking to us like that?”

Actually, he spoke only to Sam, and completely ignored me, but this is probably not a point worth making just now.

“These guys come in here and act like they own the place. Probably got here yesterday and already, he’s the man.”

We start driving west, towards Baghdad. It’s quiet in the car. Sam puts her feet up on the dashboard. Anyone who sees would know in a second that she is not an Iraqi woman, and might find this behaviour insulting. I wait for Rizgar to say something, or to tell her to move into the back seat, but he’s silent, which I take to be a sign that he doesn’t push Sam when she’s angry.

A few minutes later, to my relief, she takes her feet down.

“That was stupid,” she says.

“What?”

“My reacting like that. I shouldn’t have let that schmuck get me upset. Just a stupid spook.”

“A spook is a spy, right?”

“Yeah, basically. I mean, not much of a spy, really. He wasn’t exactly undercover. But he had to be CIA. He could have asked me to just keep it all off the record.” She tsks, shakes her head. “I lost my cool. I’m not used to having some American official trying to stop me from doing a story in a place like this. Usually it’s a local person, and then I can sweet talk my way through.” She turns around and smiles with a closed, mischievous mouth. “Usually I find a way to get people to let me in on anything.”

We are passing a column of tanks, which puts a chill in my neck.

“How do you convince them?”

Sam shrugs. “I try to play according to their rules,” she says. “Guilt’s always helpful,” she says matter-of-factly. “You appeal to their sense of duty or national pride. You give them the sense that it would look bad if they didn’t talk to you.”