I Lost My Love in Baghdad (2 page)

BAGHDAD

“Mike, get down, mate.”

I am lying in the backseat of a blue BMW. My view is the car's ashtray on the back of the center console. My legs are wedged between the seats, my torso twisted at an awkward angle. I am wearing blue jeans and a button-down long-sleeved shirt, a vest of body armor firmly Velcroed to protect my vital organs. I've been in Baghdad less than one hour and am now a passenger traveling down the road from the airport to the Green Zone.

“Mike, just try to keep your head below the windows, mate.”

My security manager is Jack Tapes, an ex–Royal Marine, who flew in with me that morning from Amman, Jordan. Neither of us slept much the night before. We had first-class tickets, so we waited, chain-smoking, in the Royal Jordanian first-class lounge at the Queen Alia International Airport. The flight, one of the two scheduled daily commercial flights from Amman to Baghdad, was delayed for about an hour. The pilots were South African, working on contract because of their experience flying in and out of war zones. The plane was filled with contractors and mercenaries and overweight Iraqi businessmen and officials. The stewardesses, also South African, were very pretty; a slight blond girl with wild green eyes served me shrimp on a small slice of brown bread and a bottle of seltzer water. I suspected they chose the prettiest girls on purpose, to give the passengers a sense of calm, the flight a feeling of normalcy it shouldn't have had. The stewardess stood in the aisle to talk about seat belts, emergency exits, overhead compartments, electronic devices off, and flotation devices under the seats, a highly improbable safety feature considering we were flying over four hundred miles of desert. The “corkscrew landing”—the phrase used to describe the now legendary descent for civilians coming into Baghdad—was uneventful. The plane angled down, a sharp diagonal cut across the sky, the wings dipping in ways the wings of passenger planes aren't supposed to dip. I looked out the window at the sunlight bouncing off miniature homes and cars, a series of tiny sparkles, wondering if they were flashes of gunfire. The fear was more existential than physical. We were floating, circling, a big fat target over the dull brown landscape below. I remembered the warning on the State Department's website: “Civilian aircraft flying into the Baghdad Airport are regularly targeted for rocket and small arms fire.” The travel advisory strongly recommended Americans not to visit Iraq. When the plane touched down, the stewardess's voice came over the intercom to give us the local time, one hour ahead of Amman, and then said, “Thank you for flying Royal Jordanian. We hope you have pleasant stay.”

The day before, Tapes had briefed me on the pickup from the airport—what was supposed to happen, what car we would get into, what to do if we got hit, if there was “contact,” as Tapes put it. We would be traveling in a Mercedes sedan. “B-6 armor,” he explained, “the highest level available, made to stop 7.62mm rounds.” In addition to me and Tapes, there would be a driver and an Iraqi guard in the Merc. Three other Iraqi guards with AK-47s would be in the tail or “follow car,” a gray Chevrolet. Tapes diagrammed the whole thing out in the lobby of the InterContinental Hotel in Amman. “We'll drive through any contact,” he said. First priority: keep going. “The Iraqi guards are okay,” he told me, “but they're really ‘shit shields'”—bodies to be shot before I got shot. Our biggest threat would be from American military convoys. “When they go out, they stop traffic for miles,” Tapes said. “You get stuck behind one of those, and if a car bomb is aiming for them, you can get caught up in it. It's what happened to that Marla girl”—Marla Ruzicka, the twenty-eight-year-old American aid worker who was killed in April by a car bomb on Airport Road.

The plan seemed straightforward enough, and Tapes seemed reasonable enough at the time. He'd been working in Iraq for two years. He'd been involved in gunrunning in Fallujah and Baghdad, transporting and selling arms to other security companies. He liked to say that the best time to be in a war is right at the beginning, when you can do whatever you want, before people get their shit together and start making rules. Drive any which way, shoot any which way. The golden age to work in Iraq, he told me, had passed. “It's just no fun anymore,” he said.

We stepped off the plane onto the tarmac. Private security guards from Latin America in floppy recon hats stood guard with M-16s. Military cargo planes landed on the U.S. side of the facility. Sad-looking planes with green
IRAQI AIRWAYS
decals sat on the runway. Slightly bombed-out hangars lined the landing area. The heat was intense, 45 degrees Celsius, 113 degrees Fahrenheit. According to the CNN weather report I'd watched the night before, Baghdad was the hottest place listed on the map.

A rickety fume-spewing bus, standing room only, brought us to the terminal at the Baghdad International Airport. I kept my bags close to me. The other passengers filed in, no smiles, the scent of body odor in the air reminding me that I had now entered the birthplace of civilization. The Fertile Crescent. Mesopotamia. Iraq.

We passed through customs and picked our luggage up off the baggage carousel. I'd brought two extra duffel bags filled with supplies for the bureau—one packed with Western food, Skippy peanut butter, Cap'n Crunch, and strawberry Pop-Tarts, the other with new DVDs and PlayStation 2 games. Our Iraqi security team waited in the arrivals section. They helped with my bags, and we walked at a brisk pace out to the parking garage. Tapes said we would wait a few minutes for all the VIP convoys—groups of SUVs with tinted windows and tail gunners—to leave first, on the theory that they were the “bullet magnets.”

But something else wasn't right. Tapes was getting nervous, jumpy.

“Where the fuck are the guns?” he asked.

He was speaking to Massen, our Jordanian driver. Massen lived in Amman and was at the moment under some suspicion. A few days earlier, he'd claimed his SUV was stolen, along with eight hundred dollars, while he was trying to make the drive from Amman to Baghdad on what was called the Mad Max Highway, a straight five-hundred-mile dash across the desert that was now considered too dangerous for Westerners to take. According to Massen, gunmen stopped him and stole the car and he had to walk through the desert after spending a night out in the cold. He was demanding that
Newsweek
, or Tapes, reimburse him for the lost car and the airline ticket he'd had to buy to get back into Iraq. There was a question as to whether he had actually been ambushed, or if he and his friends in Amman had just decided to steal the car. Massen was going to be my driver.

“What the fuck do you mean, you didn't bring any guns?”

Standing in the parking garage, I noticed for the first time that none of my guards were carrying weapons. I also noticed that contrary to what I was promised—the heavily armored black Mercedes—I was going to be traveling in a smaller blue BMW.

“We didn't have the key to the gun locker,” Massen explained.

“How didn't you have the key to the gun locker?”

“The
L.A. Times
took the key to the gun locker.”

The
Los Angeles Times
and the
Wall Street Journal
shared the house in the Green Zone with
Newsweek,
a way to ease the pain of paying upward of $16,000 a month for rent.

“You're fucking kidding me, mate.”

Massen shrugged. “I have a 9mm pistol,” he said.

“One fucking pistol on Airport fucking Road? Christ. And where's the fucking Mercedes?”

“We didn't want to take the Mercedes today.”

“You didn't what?”

Tapes's thick British accent grew thicker the more he swore. He took the 9mm pistol from Massen.

“And if we get fucking hit today, Massen, if we get fucking hit today, what do you think
Newsweek
in New York is going to say? They're going to say why the fuck did we spend 130 grand on an armored fucking Mercedes when you shits decided to drive in a fucking Beamer? They're going to say why the fuck wasn't Mike in the fucking Mercedes?”

Luggage loaded in the trunk, I got in the backseat of the BMW. Tapes sat next to me. He was highly agitated. “Once we leave the airport,” he said, “you lie down.”

Twisted down on the backseat, I can feel sunlight on the top of my head, on my hair, and I wonder if that means I am exposed and should try to wriggle down lower. It is very sunny, very hot, the air conditioner in the car doesn't work, and we can't roll the windows down because if a bullet gets into an armored car, it bounces around until it hits something, or more likely someone. I'm smiling. There is no fear; there is adrenaline. I know things aren't going according to plan. I know that there are no guns and I am in the wrong car and there was a serious breakdown in communication somewhere along the way. I think to myself: I guess this is to be expected in a conflict environment when you are dealing with former gunrunners and possibly criminal Iraqi men. I'm not going to say anything. I just got here, I'm new, I guess this is how it works.

Tapes is on the handheld Motorola radio used to communicate between the cars. He's telling the drivers to slow down, speed up, don't hold the radio too high above the window (if insurgents see a radio, they'll know you're guarding someone), avoid that bump, stay away from that car. He's looking out the back window, out the front window. I stay quiet, though I do want a cigarette, staring at the ashtray in front of me.

“You got to be fucking kidding me.”

The car is stopped. A convoy. We are stuck in traffic. Twenty minutes pass before the car starts moving again.

“You got to be fucking kidding me, mate.”

Another American convoy, another twenty minutes. The car is getting hotter, Tapes is keeping up a steady rhythm of fucks and shits. I am sweating and I remember this thing I read a year ago by Ryszard Kapuściński, the Polish journalist, about a trip he took to Azerbaijan. “Once you are in this kind of situation, you are in this kind of situation.” Or something like that.

This is what I signed up for. Fucking Baghdad. I am finally here.

In January 1992, when the U.S. went to war with Iraq for the first time, I sat with my father in the kitchen of our childhood home in Malone, New York, and watched the bombs fall on CNN. I was in fifth grade when the three-day ground war started, and I asked to be excused from phys ed class so I could see General Norman Schwarzkopf, Stormin' Norman, give a live press conference from Riyadh. I asked my teacher, Sister Marilyn, to bring a television into the classroom so I could watch. I took notes on a small pad with a pencil.

I've always been obsessed with the news. When I was six years old, I would wake up early before school to watch the newly founded CNN. But Iraq's invasion of Kuwait was news that went beyond the television. When the gulf war started, everyone in my class wore yellow ribbons and we all sang that song—I'm proud to be an American, because at least I know I'm free, and I won't forget the men who died who gave that right to me. It was a very small Catholic school in a very small town. During recess, I talked about the war with my friends, the few kids who'd been as glued to the TV as I was.

One day that winter, there was a special assembly in the gymnasium. A local actor was brought in as part of an educational initiative to explain the war to elementary school students. He got up on stage, carrying two rubber Halloween masks, one of President George Herbert Walker Bush and one of President Saddam Hussein al-Tikriti. He played each role, switching back and forth behind a folding screen on stage, explaining American foreign policy in simple terms, bad guys versus good guys. It was entertaining. I remember raising my hand and asking, why don't we just kill Saddam Hussein? The actor, prepared to improvise, put on the Bush mask and said something like: “Would you like it if they killed me, your president?” And I remember thinking, perhaps precociously, or perhaps I'd heard it somewhere, that the cost of one life is nothing if it could save so many others.

Months later, there was another assembly. The war was over, and this time we listened to a returning veteran who couldn't have been older than twenty. I raised my hand and asked him: Did you carry an M-16, and does an M-16 have automatic and semiautomatic fire? And if so, is there a switch on the gun? (Yes, it has both, and there is a switch.) He described trying to dig a foxhole in the desert, and how he went on a mission for two days, observing the enemy from a distance. I was riveted. It was like being in the presence of a celebrity—better, even, because this celebrity had been to war. I'd always been fascinated by the military. Throughout grade school, my favorite game involved hiding in the woods with cap guns and camouflage uniforms. Every month, I would ask my father to bring me to a nearby army/navy surplus store. When I was nine, he bought me a real Vietnam-era flak jacket that I had wanted.

Throughout the nineties, I stayed focused on the news about Iraq. I read about the economic sanctions, how human rights groups estimated that over half a million Iraqi children had died due to the restrictions on imports, about the allegations of WMDs and the U.N. deployment of weapons inspectors, then Clinton's bombing of over one hundred targets in Iraq in December 1998. I watched David O. Russell's gulf war adventure film
Three Kings
twice in the theaters and many more times on DVD. Saddam even made a cameo in
The Big Lebowski,
another of my favorite movies, popping up in a dream sequence at a bowling alley.

I moved to New York City to finish college in September 2000, taking classes in English literature and media studies at night and working part-time jobs during the day. It was an election year in which George W. Bush promised that America would do no more “nation-building.” The song “Bombs Over Baghdad” by Outkast became a hit. On September 11, 2001, my father called and woke me up and told me to turn on the TV. I headed downtown, under the blue skies, making it to Houston Street before being turned back at the first police barricade. I watched the towers burn from the roof of a friend's apartment in the East Village. I turned twenty-two the next year, graduated, and got a summer internship at
Newsweek.
I started to report and write for the international edition of the magazine. I was hired at the end of the summer.