How to Break a Terrorist (10 page)

S
INCE THE SECOND
Battle of Fallujah, Ramadi has been a key Al Qaida stronghold in Anbar Province. It is rumored in intelligence circles that Al Qaida leadership in the operational wing has taken root there. Every day, marines and army units see action, both in the streets and on the outskirts of town. Nowhere is safe.

In mid-April, a firefight erupts in the city proper. The insurgents hold their ground, blasting away at our troops with AK-47s. Two insurgents die, their bodies crumpling to the pavement. In the middle of the battle, a blue BMW 325 races through the streets and screeches to a halt in front of the corpses. Two men jump out of the car. Other insurgents run to the vehicle and load the bodies into the trunk. AKs are thrown in on top of the corpses. Before anyone can react, the car burns rubber and races away from the scene.

A Kiowa scout helicopter circling above the firefight observes the entire scene. The pilot flips on a video camera,
then gives pursuit, tracking the BMW to an apartment complex a few miles from the firefight. A raid team kicks in a door and catches three men, all brothers. Problem is, they’ve stashed the weapons and hidden the bodies. A thorough search of the complex fails to find them.

The brothers are brought to us, and Randy asks that we make them our priority. The troops in the field need to know where the bodies went and where the guns are hidden. I take the oldest brother, whose name is Yusif. Steve gets the middle one. I assign another ’gator on my team, Marcia, to the youngest.

Before I head into the booth, I read the screener’s report on Yusif. Our screener is a senior army NCO who couldn’t cut it as an interrogator. Somewhere along the way, somebody told him that insurgents can be identified by their dirty, earth-encrusted hands. It has become a running joke among the interrogators that every screening report he writes includes detailed descriptions of the detainee’s fingers, palms, and nails. This time, our screener reports Yusif’s hands are girlishly soft. He has no calluses, and his hands are clean. Of course, this means nothing; it could be that he wears work gloves while digging holes for IEDs.

I head into the booth to meet Yusif. He speaks little English, so Mustafa, our ’terp, joins us.

Yusif sits down in one of the white plastic chairs and removes his mask. I’m startled by his appearance. He’s lightskinned, almost white, and has pale blue eyes. He doesn’t look like a typical Iraqi at all.

It’s time to see what sort of character I have in front of me. Use rapport and small talk to find out what shape the doppelgänger needs to take.

I introduce myself. Yusif seems cordial enough but very scared. I start with the basics.

“Where are you from?”

“Ramadi.”

“You’ve lived in Ramadi all your life?”

He turns to look at the interpreter as Mustafa translates this. I ask him to keep his eyes on me.

“I am sorry. Yes. I have lived in Ramadi all my life.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I am a cameraman.”

BMW in a firefight. Cameraman. The picture’s starting to come into focus.

“Who do you work for?”

Yusif pats his shoulder, “I work for myself. I freelance.”

“Really? For who?” I’m very interested in this and make no effort to hide it. I notice that Mustafa mirrors my tone when he translates this.

Yusif answers matter-of-factly. He’s starting to calm down a little. His initial fear is giving way to caution.

“I videotape weddings mostly.”

Here we go again.

He says something else. I resist the urge to look at Mustafa, who says, “I also videotape birthday parties and sports for the local news. Soccer mainly.”

“So you’re a journalist?” I ask.

“Not really. But I have sold film to
Al Arabiya
.”

“What sort of film?” Every instinct is humming. This guy could be out filming those gruesome beheading videos and executions Bobby showed me.

“Soccer matches. Just sports, really.”

“Have you ever filmed anything about the war?”

“No.” Flatly and speedily answered.

“Who do you live with? Are you married?”

Yusif replies; Mustafa translates. “I’m not married. I live with my two younger brothers and my mother. I support them. My father died in the war against Iran.”

Ping. A reason to hate Shia.

“How is business for you?”

I’m thinking about Abu Gamal. Maybe his freelance work dried up, and to make ends meet he started filming for Al Qaida.

“Not good. We’re not rich, but at least we are surviving. My brothers work manual labor jobs to supplement my income.”

“I imagine it is difficult to do your job these days.”

“Yes. It is very dangerous to be out. But we get by.”

I try to look as sympathetic as possible as I ask the next question.

“Yusif, do you know anyone affected by all the violence in Ramadi?”

“Yes. A friend of mine last month.”

Mustafa waits for him to continue. When he doesn’t, I prod him. “What happened?”

“He was a journalist. Somebody kidnapped him.”

Yusif speaks a few more sentences, then waits patiently for Mustafa to translate. His eyes are watery. Clearly this was not an easy question for him to answer.

“My friend was found beheaded. Whoever kidnapped him tortured him with a drill. He had marks from it all over his body.”

There’s motive for joining Al Qaida right there. The same
motive these other Sunni have had: protection from the Shia militias.

I decide to work this angle a little longer.

“That must have been hard, Yusif. I am sorry.”

Mustafa looks very grim as he listens to Yusif’s reply.

“Yes it was. I saw him at the morgue. He…was…without…his head. I went with his mother. It was horrible. They did terrible things to my friend.”

The doppelgänger starts to take form. Sympathy. Understanding. Those will be the weapons I use next.

“It must have made you very mad to see this. I’d want to take up arms and defend my people from this horror.”

Yusif shakes his head slowly. He looks desperately sad. “Perhaps. But I don’t think the answer is meeting violence with violence.”

Yusif, what are you? Martin Luther King, Jr.? You’re minimizing here, backing away from my bait. My question was too obvious. My mistake.

He continues. “I am out a lot. I have seen bodies. I don’t like where Iraq is going, and the insurgent groups aren’t helping. They are not the answer. The only way is peace.”

Now he’s running an approach on me. I need to regain the initiative. I decide to switch gears.

“Do you own a car?”

“Yes, I have a blue BMW 325.”

“That’s a nice car.”

“Yes it is.”

“With money so tight, how can you afford it?”

Yusif shrugs. “Actually, we can’t afford it. I haven’t driven it for over a month. We have no money for gas.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Why is that?” he asks me, puzzled.

I decide to lay one of my cards on the table.

“Well, would it surprise you to know that your car was seen in another place earlier today?”

Yusif reacts with surprise. His eyes grow slightly wider. “Yes, it would. It would surprise me a lot. In fact, that is not possible.”

“Why do you say that?”

“My brothers and I were home all day with my mother. The car didn’t move from our parking space.”

I decide to keep him off balance and hit him with another line of questioning. Retain the initiative.

“Your mother is at home?”

“Yes.” His expression turns from cautious to worried. I’ve hit a nerve.

“She’s by herself?”

“Yes.”

“You must be very concerned for her.”

“I am. And I know she is very worried for us.”

“I am concerned for your mother as well. These are dangerous times. She shouldn’t be alone.”

He nods but doesn’t answer. I decide to offer him a deal.

“Let’s get you out of here so you can return to her.”

He looks relieved. “I would appreciate that very much.”

“I have to tell you though, the only way that will happen is if you’re honest with me.”

“I will tell you the truth. Whatever you need to know, I will tell you.”

He sounds like Abu Gamal.

“When was the last time you drove the BMW?”

A lightbulb goes on in his brain. I can see him realizing
that this is why he’s here. We have something on him and his car.

“The car hasn’t moved in the last month,” he replies a little too quickly.

“Not a good start Yusif. We know the car has moved. You’ve got to at least be honest about that.”

“No! I swear, it hasn’t moved.”

I shake my head sadly. “Think of your mother, Yusif. Why do you lie to me?”

Mustafa injects Yusif’s pleading tone into his translated answer, “I am not lying. Please, you must believe me.”

Before I left the ’gator pit, Cliff gave me two still photographs taken from the Kiowa’s video recording of the incident. One shows the BMW parked in front of Yusif’s apartment. The other shows it in the firefight with the bodies being loaded into the trunk.

I pull the first one out of my notebook and hand it to Yusif. “Is that your car?” I ask him.

“Yes.” He sounds nervous now.

I hand him the second photo. “Is that your car?”

He studies it. His hands start to shake. He stutters an answer. Mustafa says, “Yeah, it looks like mine. When was this taken?”

“It was taken a few hours ago during a firefight in Ramadi.”

Yusif hears this and goes polar white. He looks like a corpse. He stutters another answer, shaking his head at the same time. His hands shake even worse. “No. That’s impossible. I was home all day and the car never moved.”

I am sick of going in circles with this guy.

“That’s ridiculous. The evidence is right here!” I slap a
hand on the photographs. “Could your brothers have taken the car without your knowing it?”

“No! I have only one set of keys! I had them with me all day.”

I’m going to turn the screws on him and then transform this into a new-school approach. I’ve got to get him past this line of crap.

“Now you’re just insulting me.”

When Mustafa translates this, Yusif’s eyes become saucers. “No, I tell you the truth. I swear!”

“Then explain these!” I nearly shout, holding up the photographs.

“I can’t. It looks like my car in the second photo, but mine has not moved.”

This is going nowhere, so I change my approach.

I calm down and for a good twenty seconds I don’t say anything. I switch my gaze from the notepad back to Yusif. He looks absolutely miserable.

“Yusif. Think about your mother for a minute. I want you to close your eyes and imagine her face.”

Reluctantly, he closes his eyes.

“Picture your mother’s face and how worried she is. Can you see the expression on her face? She is home alone in a city overwhelmed with violence. How will she get food? How will she pay bills without your income? How can she survive without you and your brothers? Where are her sons that were just taken by the Americans? She must be asking herself questions right now.”

Yusif hunches forward, keeping his eyes squeezed closed. A single tear escapes his right eye and streaks down his cheek.

“I’m not blaming you for doing anything,” I say softly. The change in my tone causes him to open his eyes and watch me. With one sleeve, he wipes the tear away.

He’s going to buy this. I know it. So I press.

“I’m not even mad that you were out there today in that fight. You probably needed money, and after all, you didn’t shoot at Coalition Forces. All you did was pick up the bodies and move some guns. And given what the Shia militias are doing to Sunni all over Iraq, I understand why you’d feel compelled to take up arms. You have to defend yourself and your family.”

Nailed it. He’s going to break. I can feel it.

“So, I’m going to help you and your brothers. I’m going to make sure that at the very least, we get your younger brothers back to your mother as soon as possible. But you have got to give me something.”

His head drops. He studies the floor. He’s crying now. He manages a short response. Mustafa looks frustrated as he gives me Yusif’s reply, “We were home all day.”

Damnit! Okay, I’ll have to let the doppelgänger come into better focus

“You’re the oldest, right?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve taken care of your brothers and your mother since your father died, right?”

“Yes. That is my responsibility.” His voice is just a hoarse whisper now.

“I know it is your responsibility. I am the oldest brother in my family. I know it is my job to look after my younger brothers. You know that lying to me isn’t going to help your brothers. I can’t get them released if you keep lying.”

He shakes his head. Twice. Three times. It is an odd gesture, like he’s trying to awake from a nightmare. “The car never moved. It never moved. I am telling the truth.”

He’s gone turtle, and I’m running out of time for this session.

I pull out two more photos from my notebook. They are prison mug shots of Yusif’s brothers. I show them to Yusif. The sight of his brothers in orange jumpsuits leaves him overwhelmed.

“Take these,” I order. “Take them back to your cell. Look at them tonight. Think about your responsibility to them. Think about the truth. The car. The evidence we have. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

I try to hand the photos to him, but his hands quake so badly he can’t grab them. I lean forward and fold them into his jumpsuit’s breast pocket. His voice cracks. He tries to say something. Mustafa asks him to repeat it.

“I am telling the truth.”

“Put your mask back on.”

His hands tremble so badly that I have to help him get it over his head. A guard comes in and leads him back to his cell as I head for the ’gator pit. I’m angry and frustrated. This guy is a diversion from our real mission. Cracking Yusif and his brothers won’t get us closer to Zarqawi. They’re small fry, foot soldiers in the battle. We need to be focusing on the big fish like the remains of the Group of Five.