J.C. was frustrated but still had Abd al-Rahman and his family in his sights. They returned to the brother-in-law’s house, a couple blocks away from the house Mubassir had first directed us to, where J.C. had first seen Abd al-Rahman nineteen days earlier.
The next morning, June 7, J.C. again found himself watching the screens. The JOC was empty except for one member of J.C.’s team. Midmorning, as usual, Abd al-Rahman went in the silver sedan from his brother-in-law’s home back to his own house. He and his driver started out the same as usual, only this time the car stayed in the immediate district. They wound around its streets and then, curiously, circled back to the house. At around noon, Tom D. entered the JOC, just as Abd al-Rahman returned to his house after circling about. He and J.C. agreed: It seemed like a maneuver of someone worried about being followed to wherever he was going next.
Under continuous surveillance, the silver sedan drove to the northeastern part of Baghdad, where it caught the on-ramp for the route Iraqis called Sabbah Nissan, which ran north through the sparser neighborhoods east of Sadr City and out, eventually to Diyala Province. It was now midafternoon, and the highway’s six lanes were flush with traffic. As J.C. and Tom D. watched, the silver sedan slowed and veered to the side of the road, where Abd al-Rahman got out. It was not uncommon for Iraqis to get out on the side of even busy highways, hop the side walls, and go to the stores along the road. But the silver sedan took off and Abd al-Rahman started walking backward, against traffic. They saw him with his cell phone to his ear. Within the time it took him to walk twenty or thirty feet, a blue Bongo truck—the kind with a small, snub-nosed cab, short flatbed, and car-sized wheels—appeared in the field of view and quickly slowed to a stop in its lane. Abd al-Rahman swung himself into the passenger side, and the truck driver punched the accelerator. It was over in a few seconds. J.C. and Tom D. looked at each other.
“That was slick,” Tom D. said. It was classic countersurveillance behavior, called tradecraft in the “business” of clandestine operatives.
One of the three ISR planes followed the silver sedan, while J.C. and Tom D. focused on the second feed, showing the Bongo truck. They figured he was going to the neighborhoods in the northeast quadrant of Baghdad, where they had watched Abd al-Rahman circle around in the preceding weeks, likely talking on his cell phone. But then the Bongo truck missed one turnoff, then the next. Soon, it had left the city limits.
“Well, he’s out of Baghdad,” J.C. said, turning to Tom D. Leaving the city was one of the preestablished triggers to move on Abd al-Rahman. “We thought he was going to go to the west, not north. But he’s out.” He sucked air in between his teeth. “It looks like we’re waking everybody up.”
The roused operators, who had returned to the villa and shed their equipment only a few hours earlier, soon joined J.C., Tom D., and the rest of the intel team in the JOC. They also called up to TF 16 headquarters at Balad. Steve, the task force commander, and M.S., its intelligence chief, were in the O&I VTC when someone came in and told them Abd al-Rahman was moving. They came out into the JOC and watched a replay of the feed showing the vehicle swap. The feeds went onto the JOC screens, and Steve started pulling in more ISR assets from across Iraq.
A few minutes later, Steve came into my office on the other side of the plywood wall. He was businesslike, but this wasn’t business as usual. As I listened, I knew the frustration he had experienced as a squadron commander over a year earlier, when lost surveillance had let Zarqawi slip through his fingers.
“Rahman’s moved, sir. He swapped vehicles and left Baghdad,” he said.
“Okay. Where’s he going?” I asked. I assumed he would head to Yusufiyah.
“He’s going north. We’re pulling in assets to cover this guy.”