Those of us who work in Iraq and were there when this all took place (and knew Andi and Michael) know that the real people to blame are the operations folks who allowed Andi's PSD mission to go into Yarmouk that day. It was 'common knowledge' that Yarmouk, at that time, was an incredibly dangerous neighborhood. They should have, too. Shame on them -- the security company NDI hired to protect their principals, that is. I wouldn't blame the Hungarian guy in the car: he was acting upon instinct in the midst of an incredibly hostile situation . . . who knows what any of us would have done. Michael is venting his anger, and considering his loss, I am sympathetic to that. I am also sympathetic to the PSDs who put their lives on the line to protect us ??? they keep us diplomats safe every day. Blackwater, DyCorp, etc. ??? they do a much better job than the media allows the world to see. (And no, they are not shooting Iraqis left-and-right like Sept. 16th incident would lead you to believe!) The people to rightfully blame in Andi???s case? The guys behind a desk, collecting facts, determining grid coordinates, etc. They should have known better than to make a move into Yarmouk --- Those of us in the Embassy did. NDI???s security company should be investigated.
‘I’m Sorry We Couldn’t Do More’
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In her laptop bag I find pictures of her and her two nieces. Folders from work. Letters that my father has written her. Gifts I have given her: a small gold Kurdistan pendant and a necklace I had bought for her from a woman in the West Bank, the digital camera I gave her for Christmas in Vermont. A few books: Marie Antoinette, Twain's Joan of Arc, the biography of Empress Sisi I bought her when we were in Vienna. I open up the care packages, and inside are finger paintings from Kayla and Abby, her nieces, with yellow hearts saying LOVE ANDI.
I take out her clothes—the blue sweatshirt of mine she liked to wear, my favorite top of hers, the white one she wore when she met me in Vienna, her blue scarf and mittens. I take her perfume.
I find a plastic bag of extra large men's T-shirts, including one that says HUNGARIAN INTERNATIONAL SHOOTING CLUB. I assume it belongs to the dead Hungarian guard who was in Andi's car.
Later that afternoon, the security manager from NDI calls.
"You don't happen to have T-shirts, do you? Extra large? They belong to the bodyguard in the third car."
"Yes, I do."
"I'll come by and pick them up," he says. And then, "He's agreed to meet with you if you want. He's at the NDI compound in the [Green Zone]."
"I'd like to talk to him."
A few hours later, I drive with NEWSWEEK's security manager "X" to meet the surviving guard. Let's call him Jacob. He was one of the two survivors in the third car. He's from a small town in Hungary. His English is okay. He was shot in the arm, but is doing fine.
"I'm sorry we couldn't do more," he says, and then he starts talking, and I stare at him, listening.
He's a thick six feet two with a square head and soft brown hair. He's wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. He has a cut on his chin and what look like stitches. He seems a bit shaky.
"She wasn't the only one who was killed, you know," he says.
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