Body of Lies (5 page)

O
N THE DAY
Ferris got lucky, he had been in Iraq for almost three months. He was scared almost every day he was there, and this one was no different. The base was mortared early in the morning while he was showering, and he had to scramble bare-assed from the latrine near his trailer, with a towel barely covering his privates, and duck under the concrete barrier that served as a shelter. Two mortar rounds landed, one of them a quarter mile away. They didn't bother to sound an all-clear anymore, because it was never all clear. Ferris went back and finished his shower, but he thought--wrongly, as it turned out--that starting the day this way was a bad omen.

He was heading back that morning into what his colleagues called "the shit," which meant anything outside the walls of the compound. His practice was to spend a week outside, then a week back in. Hoffman hadn't liked that--the most dangerous part of the job was transiting back and forth--and he wanted Ferris to meet his agents inside the perimeter. The NE Division chief was genuinely afraid that he might lose Ferris in Iraq, a fight he wasn't sure was worth it. But Ferris knew that caution was useless. Better not to have any agents than to rely on ones who made their way back and forth to an American compound. That was the point about Iraq: There was no way to be half in.

Ferris put on his sweat-stained robe and his checkered kaffiyeh. He had grown the required moustache in Iraq and a stubbly beard, never quite shaven or unshaven. With his coloring, he could easily pass for an Arab. Not an Iraqi, perhaps, but an Egyptian, which was his cover identity. He had in fact first learned his Arabic in Cairo, during a semester abroad when he was at Columbia, and he still spoke with the soft "G" of the Egyptian dialect. Ferris wondered what his wife Gretchen would say if she could see him. She always imagined his spy life as a version of James Bond, with nice suits and martinis. If she saw him now, she would tell him to go change. Gretchen liked everything about Ferris except his real life.

Ferris left the compound with the other Arab workers when the night shift ended and the day shift came on base. He knew they wouldn't talk to him; Iraqis who worked at American bases didn't talk to anyone. They were risking their lives for the extra money they could bring home. If the insurgents found them, they were dead men. So they scattered as soon as they were outside the gate, and Ferris scattered with them.

An Iraqi car was waiting for him on the outside. It was a beat-up Mercedes from the mid-1970s, purchased back when Iraq was flush with money. The driver was one of Ferris's agents--a young man named Bassam Samarai. He had been living in the Iraqi community in Dearborn, Michigan, and had been dumb enough to believe the American rhetoric back in 2003 and head for Iraq with a fat stipend from the CIA. His family was from this area; they had protected him, and pretended to believe his story about coming home to start a new business importing satellite dishes and decoders. One day he would end up with a bullet in his head, Ferris knew. But there was nothing he could do about it.

"Ya Bassam! Marhaba,"
Ferris greeted his agent. He slumped into the front seat and rolled up the window. The Iraqi was wearing a cheap leather jacket, and he had his hair slicked back with gel.

"How are you, man?" said Bassam. "Are you cool?" He liked American street talk, even though Ferris told him it was insecure. It reminded him of home, in Dearborn. But it wasn't just that. Bassam had a twinkle in his eye today, as if he were dying to tell Ferris something.

"I'm okay," said Ferris. "It's good to be out of there. I get sick of Balad. Too many crazy Americans. I'm ready for some crazy Iraqis."

"Well, boss, I have someone very crazy for you today. This one you are not going to believe. Really, man. He's too much." Bassam was sounding like a DJ in his excitement.

"What have you got?" said Ferris.

"The real thing, man. An Al Qaeda guy, from up near Tikrit. I knew him when I was a kid, before I left. His name is Nizar. He wanted to come to America but he couldn't get the papers, so he worked in Saddam's Moukhabarat. He got all messed up in the head after liberation, you know, like a lot of those Tikritis, and he started working with Zarqawi. At least that's what he says. He's scared shitless now, man."

Ferris's eyes were alight. He pulled the kaffiyeh a little tighter, so people in nearby cars couldn't see his face. This was what he had been waiting for these past three months, if it was true. "How did you find this guy, Bassam?"

"He found me, man. He's terrified the bad guys are going to kill him. He was supposed to do a martyrdom operation, but he got scared. He knows a lot of shit. He wants us to help him--you know, get him out of here."

"Oh, fuck." Ferris shook his head. "You didn't tell him you're working for Uncle Sugar, did you?"

"No way, man. I'm not dumb. No, he came to me just because I used to live in the States, that's all. He thinks I can fix shit for him. I told him I'd see what I could do. He's up at my uncle's house, between here and Tikrit. I told him we'd come see him today."

Ferris looked at his hip-hop Iraqi agent. "You are the real deal, Bassam. You know that? I'm proud of you."

T
HEY DROVE
with the morning traffic up Highway 1, the main route north that followed the banks of the Tigris toward Tikrit. U.S. supply convoys rumbled past, and like all the Iraqis, Bassam slowed down to let the trigger-happy American soldiers pass. That would be the worst, thought Ferris, to get blown away by some reserve NCO from Nebraska who was riding shotgun for an armed convoy bringing steaks and soda pop to the troops up north. Bassam was playing Radio Sawa, an American station that mixed American and Arab music and was the one real propaganda success the United States had achieved. He was rapping along with an Eminem song when Ferris broke in.

"We have to be careful, Bassam. If this guy is as good as you say, they are going to kill him as soon as they find he's on the lam. You have to get real serious about tradecraft now, brother. You hear me?"

"Yes, boss. I'm cool."

"No, you are not cool. You're going to get us killed, along with your pal Nizar. So pay attention. We have to move around, starting tonight. I can't stay in the same place twice this week, and neither can you. If your man Nizar checks out, he's solid gold. We're not going to get him killed with sloppy shit. We don't get chances like this very often, and I'm not going to blow it. You hear me? Huh? You fucking hear me?"

"Yes, boss," Bassam said again. But Ferris knew that he understood.

B
ASSAM'S UNCLE
lived down a long dirt road near Ad-Dawr, a few miles south of Tikrit. It had once been a farm; you could still see the irrigation equipment, but now the fields were a mess of tangled weeds and derelict equipment. Ferris told Bassam to park the car behind the main house so it couldn't be seen from the road. A smaller house stood under a eucalyptus tree about fifty yards from the main villa. Bassam said it was empty. Ferris told him to bring Nizar over to the smaller house, and not mention to his uncle or anyone else that Ferris was here. Bassam gave him a wink, trying to look cocky, but Ferris could tell that he was scared.

Ferris let himself in the little house. It stank of shit, animal or human he couldn't tell. It was a coarse fact of Iraqi life that people took a dump in almost any space that was unoccupied. He opened the windows to air the place out, set up the chairs so he could talk to Nizar without being seen. And then he sat and waited.

Bassam arrived ten minutes later with Nizar in tow, talking an Arabic version of the singsong patois he adopted in English. Nizar was a short man, built like a fireplug, with a big moustache that drooped over his lips. Ferris didn't understand all the Iraqi slang, but he could tell that Nizar was nervous. There was a tremor in his voice, even talking to Bassam, and his eyes darted back and forth, scanning the horizon for the danger he knew was out there. When he entered the little house, he peered at Ferris, trying to make out his face in the shadows.

"This is my Egyptian friend," said Bassam, pointing to Ferris. "Maybe he can help you."

They exchanged Islamic pleasantries. Peace be with you; God grant you health. Bassam had brought a bottle of water with him from his uncle's house, and he poured it out ceremoniously into three dirty glasses. It took a while to get started, but it was always a mistake to rush anything in this part of the world.

"I can help you, my friend," said Ferris in his Egyptian-accented Arabic.

"Thanks God," said Nizar.

"But why do you need help? What are you afraid of?"

"I know too many things, sir. I have traveled with Abu Musab. I know his secrets. They trusted me. They were going to send me outside Iraq. They prepared me. But then a few days ago they said sorry, they needed me for a martyrdom operation in Baghdad. I think they did not trust me anymore. I don't know why. Rumors, maybe. They hear that I know Bassam, maybe. That was when I ran away. They have too many martyrs. I don't want to die. I want to go to America."

"I can help," repeated Ferris. "I know people who can get you to the United States. Money, a visa, a green card. Everything. But you know the Americans. They are greedy. You must give them something, or they will never help you. So what can you give them? You tell me, and then I will know if I can help you."

Nizar shook his head. "It is too dangerous," he said. "I will tell only the Americans. I cannot trust the Arabs. They will betray me."

Ferris thought a moment. Everything the man had said so far sounded rational. And he was right to think that he could not trust Arabs. The pitch would have to come from an American. Ferris knew that revealing himself as an American this early was a violation of his ops plan, but he couldn't think of any other way to make it work. He leaned forward in his chair so that his face was in the full sunlight, and took off his kaffiyeh so that Nizar could see his features

"I am an American, Nizar. I work for the National Security Council," Ferris said in English, and then he repeated it in Arabic. "I can help you to get to America, but you must tell me what you know. Then we can make a good plan."

Nizar studied Ferris's face, trying to make up his mind. Then he did the one thing Ferris didn't expect. He fell to the floor and kissed Ferris's hand. There were tears in his eyes. That's how scared he was that Zarqawi's people were going to kill him.

"Tell me what you know," said Ferris, slowly and evenly. "Then I can help you. Tell me the thing that will make my big boss back in Washington, the president, most happy."

Nizar closed his eyes. He knew what it was. This was the only card he had to play. Ferris reached out his hand and touched the Iraqi man on the forehead, as if he were healing him. He'd never done that before with anyone in his life, but in the moment, it felt right.

"They wanted me to leave Iraq," said Nizar.

"Yes," said Ferris. "You told me that. Why did they want you to leave Iraq?"

"Because of my training, with the Moukhabarat. I know how to make bombs. I know how to run operations. I have all the training. They said they needed it, for the operations in Europe. The car bombs. That is their plan, for car bombs in Europe, just like Baghdad. But they do not have enough people. They needed me." He stopped, frightened to continue.

"Who needed you?" Ferris looked him in the eyes and then repeated it. "Who needed you, Nizar? Tell me, or I will leave now."

"The man who runs Al Qaeda's new network. The one who is planning the bombings in Europe. The one who frightens the Americans the most. The people here are in touch with him. They wanted to send me to him."

"And who is that?"

Nizar fell silent again. He sat there, shaking his head--terrified and uncertain what to do.

Ferris sensed he might lose him if he didn't act quickly. He rose from his chair, as if ready to walk out. "Come on, Bassam," he said. "We're leaving."

Nizar said a word, but his voice was barely audible.

"Speak up," said Ferris.

"Suleiman," he whispered. "That is not his real name, but that is the name they give him. Suleiman the Magnificent. He is the planner."

Oh my God, thought Ferris.
This is it.
How are we going to keep this guy alive?

4

BALAD, IRAQ

F
ERRIS CALLED
E
D
H
OFFMAN ON
his satellite phone from the derelict house near the Tigris. It would be four in the morning back in Washington, but that didn't matter. Hoffman would be furious if he hadn't been awakened, when he found out what Ferris had. He routed the call through the NE Division ops center. The watch officer sounded peeved, as if he had been interrupted from the solitaire game on his computer. But he put the call through to Hoffman at home.

"What the fuck?" were Hoffman's first words. And then: "What time is it?"

"Sorry to wake you up," said Ferris. "But I think we may have found the real thing out here in Dodge City."

"Oh yeah?" said Hoffman, now fully awake. "What have you got?"

"I am debriefing an Iraqi walk-in. He's a Sunni from Samara who used to work for Saddam's intelligence service. He's part of Al Qaeda in Iraq now, or at least he was until a few days ago when they told him they needed him for car-bomb duty. Now he's on the run. He just told me something pretty interesting."

"Yeah? Okay. I'm waiting."

"He said that Al Queda was going to send him outside, to connect up with the man planning their operations in Europe. They're building a network to do car bombings in Europe. At least he says they are. He had a name for the planner. He called him Suleiman."

"You're right. That is pretty damn interesting." Hoffman let out a low growl of excitement. "What else did he say?"

"Shit. Isn't that enough? I want to get him out, Ed. We need to debrief him carefully."

"Sorry, I didn't catch that."

"I said I want to get him out. If he stays here, he's a dead man. I told him I would get him out if he gave me the goodies."