‘I’m Sorry We Couldn’t Do More’

On Jan. 17, 2007, a group of armed insurgents ambushed and killed an idealistic 28-year-old American who was working in Baghdad for the nonprofit National Democratic Institute, along with three private security contractors who were accompanying her. Bef ore her death, Andrea (Andi) Parhamovich and NEWSWEEK reporter Michael Hastings had been preparing to announce their engagement, and the tragedy impelled him to write a book about this extraordinary woman and the vision that took her to Iraq while the bloodshed was at its worst. In this excerpt, Hastingsreconstructs the day she died.

Andi wakes up Wednesday morning in Baghdad. She takes an hour to get ready. She showers, brushes her teeth, and thinks about placing a Crest whitening strip on her smile. She eats only a Zone bar, high nutrition, and drinks a bottle of Ocean Spray cranberry juice from her small refrigerator. Her room is in the Ramal Hotel off Karrada Street on the fourth floor. It is a two-star establishment pretending to be four-star. Lots of gold and dark reds. There is only a single bed in her double room; she asked for the second bed to be taken out to make space for her yoga mat. The drapes on her window overlooking the compound are always closed. She puts on her jeans, a long-sleeved white button-down shirt, and a navy blue blazer. She checks her email on a laptop with a wireless connection, sends a message to her friend in New York, giving advice on relationship troubles. She grabs her black bag and folder with pen and paper. She closes and locks the door.

Andi walks down the four floors, says good morning to the owner of the hotel, who stands behind the front desk in a suit. She waves at the boy who cleans her room and brings her room service, light meals of hummus and tea. She steps around the metal detector at the hotel entrance, checks to make sure she has her mobile phone, then steps out into the isolated world of her compound. It is a self-contained fortress: two barely functioning hotels facing each other across a narrow, closed-off street, an entire city block taken over by the organizations that live and work inside the compound.

There is sun today, a clear sky, but at this hour it is still chilly. Her office is inside the compound, protected from the main avenue by checkpoints and tall concrete walls. It takes her only a minute to walk there. She passes about a dozen vehicles, some armored white SUVs, others armored sedans, parked underneath an awning. She arrives at her desk about 9 a.m. She has a trip planned for this morning, her first in her new job at the National Democratic Institute. Compound life can be stifling, and she is looking forward to getting out into the city. She sits down and calls her interpreter, who tells her the meeting is still on. The interpreter will meet her at the Iraqi Islamic Party headquarters in Yarmouk, a neighborhood on the other side of the city. She calls the head of security, telling him she'll be ready to go soon. The security team is waiting outside, four European private security guards and three Iraqi drivers.

Across the Tigris River, other men are preparing for her arrival. A few of them were up earlier, most likely for prayer. They have names, though most don't use them. They are cousins and brothers. They drink chai and start to move to their cars. They stash weapons—AK-47s, grenades, and a heavy machine gun—in the trunk of an orange and white Opel. They load up two more cars.

The leader's cell phone rings. The ring tone is an Islamic prayer he downloaded from the Internet. The rest of the men are used to it, they know it is his phone. He gets confirmation.

She is coming. She is blond, American. They even have a name.

The first thing out of the mouth of anyone I talk to— Iraqis, my journalist friends, my military contacts, the security personnel—is, how could this trip to such a dangerous place have been approved? It seems like a clear f–––up. Yarmouk is considered one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Baghdad. There was no need to meet members of the IIP, a party known to have ties with insurgent groups, at their headquarters. Bad things happened at their headquarters. Two Iraqi journalists were killed while leaving a press conference there—kidnapped and executed—six months ago.

I know all this. I know the Iraqi Islamic Party is shady. I know they are hypocrites. I know most political parties in Iraq are complicit in the killing that is taking place in the country. Why did I not put all of it together when Andi told me she was going to visit with the IIP days earlier? All I said was, Be careful.

I know, I know, I know.

You cannot blame yourself, I am told. Yes I can. I can blame myself and I can blame everybody. Blame is easy. Blame is easier than living with this terrible sadness and despair.

This afternoon, a few security guards from NDI dropped off Andi's belongings at the NEWSWEEK bureau. Two large black trunks—the trunks I had brought to her two weeks earlier. Four suitcases. Two unopened cardboard care packages—they arrived on Thursday—FedEx boxes from her family and my family. Her laptop bag with her personal computer.