Ed. Note: This is one of a series of columns written by a New Orleanian stationed in Baghdad. Because of military regulations he cannot be identified. We can say that he is a Navy pilot and that he is from a prominent New Orleans family.
Iraq’s Ministry of Interior is home to a number of nefarious actors and entities. But determining how many “bad apples” the ministry employs is a challenge. When I joined seven other coalition soldiers on a recent visit to the Interior, I did so fueled by news reports and rumors that assumed only the worst.
The ministry is headquartered in an 1980s-era hotel in the Rusafa area of Baghdad. Urban legend holds that Saddam ordered construction of the hotel in hopeful anticipation of Baghdad’s selection to host the Olympic Games. True or not, I like this story.
On the day of our visit, my coalition partners and I reached the ministry compound in armored Suburbans. Iraqi security guards waved us through multiple check points (a tiered defense against car bombs) and directed us to our parking spot, on a sidewalk near the building’s entrance.
Stepping out of my Suburban, I looked up at the 11-story ministry and was immediately struck by two thoughts: one, hotel or not, this building definitely was built in the ’80s; and, two, by exterior appearances alone, it certainly looked like a bad place.
Leaving our Suburbans behind, we crossed ministry grounds and headed toward the entrance. As we got closer, we merged with a steady stream of Iraqis, a hodge-podge of individuals, some in business suits, others in jeans and T-shirts, even a few in burkas. This throng of people moved with a purpose and was slowed only by an equally purposeful throng moving in the opposite direction. The chokepoint for this mass of humanity was a single, narrow entrance way and metal detector guarded by three young security guards.
In full body armor I didn’t fit through the metal detector, so I walked around it, greeting the guards as I went, “Salaam.”
Inside, the lobby confirmed my worst expectations: chipped and pock-marked walls, naked light bulbs that hung adjacent to extravagant but unlit chandeliers, all layered in thick coats of the talcum powder-like dust that permeates this country.
The din of dozens of Arabic conversations filled the air.
Our body-armored group pushed through the lobby to the stairwell and began the climb to the sixth floor, the location of our scheduled meeting. The stairwell was steep and halfway through its first flight I began to rue our decision to forego the functioning albeit unreliable elevator.
With each flight of stairs the crowds thinned-out and the cacophony from the lobby faded into the background below.
Eventually we reached the sixth floor and crossed a small terrace that led to the main entrance of the hallway. A man in a business suit and holding an AK-47 guarded the hallway door. Our interpreter engaged him in a short conversation.
I didn’t understand a word our interpreter said, but apparently he said enough to spring the guard into action. The guard issued instructions to a young, plain-clothed Iraqi standing nearby. The young Iraqi subsequently disappeared behind a blacked-out glass door behind the guard’s desk and reappeared a few seconds later to motion furtively for us to come in.
By now my mind was racing. I had convinced myself that, with each step into the building, we were walking into a set-up. The dimly lit lobby, narrow stairwells and unintelligible conversations served only to cement my perceptions.
We followed the young Iraqi into the main hallway and turned immediately to our right, down a second hallway that led to our meeting room. Just as I turned down the second hallway, something – or rather, someone – caught my eye.
He stood six feet tall and wore traditional-looking Middle Eastern dress. His outfit was all black, with a black and white checked keffiyeh on his head. Over his outfit he wore a leather shoulder harness and belt that served to hold a long, curved dagger prominently displayed at his waist. The man looked intently at the seven of us.
Apparently oblivious to this exchange, our young escort shut the door separating us from the mysterious figure in black. He then directed us to an anteroom where five of us would wait while the highest ranking members of our party met with ministry officials behind closed doors.
The anteroom where we waited also served as the office of a ministry executive assistant, or EA. He stood a hair under six feet, appeared to be in his mid-30s with olive skin, jet-black hair and a mustache and was smartly dressed in a western-style business suit. Today he was directing a squad of frenetic Iraqis performing what appeared to be office business.
The EA did not speak English and we did not speak Arabic. An uncomfortable silence hung over the room. We spent just a few minutes in this awkward setting before the EA picked up his phone and made a short call – an otherwise innocuous act that immediately raised my suspicions.
Suspicions confirmed when the hallway door opened and in stepped the mysterious figure in black. He walked directly toward us, carrying two objects by his side. I strained to see what these objects were and prepared myself for action.
But the only action I needed to prepare for was to decide cream or sugar. As it turned out, the figure in black was a hospitality ambassador, and at his side he carried a coffee pot and cup. The only threat he posed: bad coffee – a threat that never came to pass.
I know there are malign actors within the Government of Iraq. Heck, I’ve met some. The hard part for me is recognizing the ones who, despite their appearance, may only want to share a cup of good, strong coffee.
