How to Break a Terrorist (11 page)

On top of that, his story is so ridiculously transparent that I’m shocked he wouldn’t concoct a better one to cover for his brothers. If it were my own brothers, I’d be doing everything I could to protect them.

I meet up with Steve. We compare notes. Turns out, the
middle brother also says the car hasn’t moved in a month. They must have had just enough time to create a legend before the raid team grabbed them.

“Why leave your brothers hanging like that,” I muse.

Steve can’t believe it either, “Yeah. Pretty stupid, isn’t it.”

Anger swells in me. “Tomorrow is going to be a lot harder on him.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I pause outside the booth.

I take a deep breath and exhale away my identity.

Another breath, and I start to change back into the doppelgänger. No longer the youngest in my family, no longer an American who sees the Sunni and Shia violence as the ultimate expression of intolerance and ignorance, I become something else. I am sympathetic to the Sunni who live with the constant threat of terror. I am the oldest brother freighted with the same burdens as Yusif. I am Yusif’s friend.

I step into the booth. Mustafa awaits me there. A moment later, Yusif comes in and is eased into his white plastic chair. I can’t help but feel a little contempt for him as I watch him take off his mask. He stuck with a ridiculous story yesterday in the face of all evidence. As he clung to it, he blew his chance to help his brothers out.

And now he’s going to have to reap that whirlwind.

“How did you sleep?” I ask politely.

He looks like hell. I needn’t have asked.

“I did not sleep. I couldn’t.”

“Sorry to hear that. Maybe if you do the right thing, you’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

Silence. We wait. He chooses not to answer.

“Have you thought about what I said yesterday?”

“Yes. That is all I could think about. That and my mother.” His voice cracks when he mentions his mother.

“Well?”

He looks me in the eyes. I see a scared human, exhausted and desperate. I feel uneasy. If it is an act, it is an Oscar-winning one.

“I will tell you anything you want to know. I will tell you only the truth.”

“Excellent.”

“Tell me about the car.”

He intakes a long breath, then lets it out slowly. Here it comes. He’s going to tell the truth.

“The car did not move.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I’m indignant.

“How can you look me in the face and lie to me?” I demand.

He looks cowed. “My car never moved. It didn’t. I swear it didn’t.”

“Bullshit!” I erupt, my anger genuine. I can’t contain it. “I showed you the pictures! We have a video!”

“That is not possible. Please,” he entreats, “I tell you the truth.”

I scoot my chair forward. He recoils at my approach, but I just reach to him and pull the two photos out of his breast
pocket. He looks wary, as if his head is filling with visions of Abu Ghraib.

“Okay, Yusif,” I begin, “My boss is furious that you will not tell the truth. Yesterday, I offered you a chance to get your brothers back home to your mother. Today, he won’t allow me to do that. You had that chance and you threw it away by lying to me.”

I pause. Mustafa translates. Yusif looks stricken.

“Today, I can only offer you this deal. You tell us the truth and my boss says he will release one of your brothers. Only one. This deal ends today. If you don’t take it, your mother might be alone for a long time.”

The color drains from Yusif’s face. His eyes start to water.

I scoot my chair a little closer. Now our knees are a cat’s whisker from touching. My face is inches from his. I hand him the photos of his brothers and order, “Hold these.” He takes them, and I see him sneak a glance down at them.

“Go ahead, look at them.” He does.

“Now, which one will you save?”

Mustafa’s translation hits him like a sneaker wave, and he stares at his brothers like a man being dragged out to sea. He knows there will be no rescue.

His eyes meet mine. Pleading, he cries, “I can’t. Don’t make me choose.”

“You must. I gave you a chance yesterday.”

He starts to hyperventilate. His breathing is shallow, fast, and ragged.

“Please, I beg you. Please don’t make me do this.”

“Your mother will be alone.”

“No!”

“Who goes home to her, Yusif?”

A sob escapes him. Tears spill down his face and splatter on the concrete floor. He drops his head almost into his knees. I back up to give him some space. He clutches the photos as he gasps.

“Please. Please. Please. I am telling the truth. I cannot choose.”

His sobbing grows uncontrollable. “No. No. Don’t make me do this…” He gasps for breath and rocks back and forth, clutching his sides. One of the photos flutters to the floor. I reach for it and put it back in his hand and then remain standing in front of him.

“Which one, Yusif? Who will you save?”

No answer. More sobbing.

I lean over at the waist and put my face close to his.

“My boss is firm on this, Yusif. Tomorrow I won’t be able to help any of you. You’ve got to give me something. I want to help you.”

Through the sobs, he wails, “The car didn’t move!”

I walk away and kick my chair onto its side.

“You’re killing me Yusif! Don’t just sit there and lie to me! That won’t save anybody! Come on, for God’s sake, if you’re going to lie, make up a better story! Tell me it was stolen!”

“It wasn’t!”

“Anything, for the sake of your mother, Yusif. Come on! Tell me your neighbor has the same car! Give me something!”

Suddenly Yusif grows still. A sob catches in his throat. He looks up at me again for the first time in minutes.

“That’s it!” He exclaims. The fear in his red-rimmed eyes evaporates. He looks…almost excited.

“What do you mean?”

“My neighbor! My neighbor!”

“What are you talking about Yusif?”

“Three houses down on the right. He has the same car I have!”

“You expect me to believe that?

“Yes! It is true. His name is Muhammad. He’s twenty-two. Black hair. Glasses. He’s a troublemaker in our neighborhood.”

“And he owns a BMW?”

Yusif sees a lifeline. “Yes, yes! A blue 325, just like mine.”

“Why can’t I see it in this photograph then?” I say holding up the still image the helicopter shot at the apartment complex.

“He parks it in a carport. You wouldn’t see it from the air.”

I study him intently. Five seconds pass. Ten.

Could this be true?

Fifteen seconds pass. He looks utterly sincere. Nobody could act this well. I’m going to have to check this out.

I pick up my chair and set it upright.

“Yusif. I will return in a few minutes. I am going to ask your brothers about this neighbor. But if I find out you are lying…”

I leave it at that. I slip out the door and walk down the hall to Steve’s booth. He’s interrogating the middle brother. A tap on the door prompts Steve to open it. He steps into the hall. “What’s up?”

“Hey, just for shits and giggles, can you find out a little bit about the neighbor three houses down on the right? I need a description and the kind of car he drives.”

“Sure.” He steps back inside. I dash to the Hollywood room and tune in. Steve starts off by asking the brother to describe all the families living around their apartment. Using another copy of the still photo taken by the helicopter, the brother populates the neighborhood for us. When he gets to the third house on the right, the brother says, “That’s Muhammad’s house. He’s twenty-two years old.”

“What sort of car does he drive?”

“He has a blue BMW 325. Just like my brother Yusif’s.”

What have I done?

Guilt stabs me. The image of Yusif doubled over in the booth, blooms in my mind. I psychologically savaged him.

I run to the ’gator pit and find Cliff. I’ve got to be sure. “Hey, you know that chopper that followed our guys?”

“Sure.”

“Did the pilots have eyes on it the entire time?”

“I don’t know. I think so, but I haven’t seen the entire video. They just sent over the stills.”

“Can you find out?”

“Yeah, let me make a phone call.”

I wait anxiously by my desk as Cliff disappears. When he returns he says, “The pilot just told me they briefly lost the car in traffic, then found it again in front of the apartment.”

I feel like somebody’s just stabbed me in the heart.

“Cliff, we have the wrong guys.”

Yusif and his brothers had nothing to do with this. He’s been telling the truth, and I presumed him to be a liar. Instead of keeping an open mind, I judged him to be just as guilty as the others.

I go to tell Randy what’s happened. The fact that Yusif does freelance work for a network worries him. He calls the
task force leadership on the phone and they fret over the possible media implications of what’s just happened. They see it as a civil affairs problem. We’ve been interrogating an innocent journalist.

Randy muses, “If he’s pissed off enough, he could really give us a black eye.”

All of that is true. But I just see Yusif, spent and broken, pleading for me not to make him chose between his brothers.

Cliff appears and passes along some news. A conventional unit just raided Muhammad’s house. They didn’t find the bodies, but there was a weapon’s cache concealed inside the home and a blue BMW 325 in the carport. He was the guilty one after all.

A civil affairs captain arrives. She intends to sit down with all three brothers, apologize, and offer them compensation.

“No,” I say, “I will sit down with Yusif. I did this to him. I have to make it right.”

The walk back to the booth is the longest of my life. What can I say?

I enter silently. Yusif has composed himself. Mustafa gives me a blank look. I sit down in front of Yusif, but I push my chair back, giving him back his space.

“Yusif. You are telling the truth.”

Relief floods his expression. “Yes.”

“I have no words. There are no words to tell you how sorry I am. I was wrong. I don’t even know where to begin.”

Mustafa translates. Yusif listens quietly.

“I owe you a profound apology. I have wronged you.”

I’m not sure how to go on. I’m the one near tears now. I
make a fist and thump it against my heart twice in an Iraqi gesture of sincerity.

Yusif says, “Mister Matthew, don’t be upset. You have a very difficult job. You are doing what is best for Iraq. There is no need to apologize.”

Is he sincere? Is he running an approach on me? I can’t tell anymore. I’ve been here not yet even two months, and the paranoia and suspicion I’ve had to hone in the booth has jaded me to basic human interaction.

“It’s not fair, Yusif, what you’ve gone through. It’s not fair.”

“If it makes my country a better place, so be it.”

I look in his face, and for the first time in my career, I’m absolutely certain I’m listening to honest words.

“I’m sorry, Yusif. I’m so sorry.”

I look in his eyes. I see forgiveness. And that is the hardest thing for me to accept.

I
T’S A NEW
day, and I’m trying to put Yusif behind me, but it’s difficult. I’ve promised myself that when I go back into the booth, I will remember my sense of humanity and compassion. I don’t want to end up like some of our veterans here, bloated with hate for our enemy.

The hunt for Zarqawi has hit a brick wall. We can’t find Abu Shafiq, and without another rung on the ladder, we’re condemned to spin in circles.

I’ll be watching two important interrogations this afternoon. Mary is slated to interrogate Abu Haydar. We’re all puzzled about him. Is he just the cameraman? If that’s the case, he’s the low man in the group’s hierarchy, maybe even lower than Abu Gamal. Yet he carries himself with such assurance.

In another booth, Steve will interrogate Abu Raja, the only one talking at this point. Even a fragment from him
might help us solve enough of the puzzle to reveal the group’s leader and allow us to focus our search.

In the Hollywood room, I tune into Mary first. She sits down with Abu Haydar, who looks stonily at her. The coldness between them is palpable even through the monitor. They speak in English.

“Did you get enough sleep?” Mary asks.

“Yes, I slept fine,” Abu Haydar says in British-accented English. He’s a bulky man with dark hair and an aquiline nose that dominates his face. He somehow manages to look dignified even though he is squeezed into his orange jumpsuit.

“Have you thought anymore about our talk yesterday?” Mary asks.

Abu Haydar sits ramrod straight in his plastic chair. He’s so calm that I wonder if his heart rate has even hit sixty beats a minute. “Yes, I did actually, and my answer has not changed.” He acts like he could be having a discussion with a recalcitrant student. Mary doesn’t seem to detect his tone.

“So you maintain that you were only at the house as a cameraman?”

“Yes. Abu Raja told me to bring a camera.”

He gives Mary a slight grin. He looks like a child who just got away with something naughty. As he waits for her response, he absently strokes his beard. His hands are massive.

“That’s just not believable, Abu Haydar,” Mary says.

“Nevertheless, it is the truth.”

Mary decides to take another path. “You just got out of Abu Ghraib four months ago. Why would you risk going to a house with suicide bombers?”

“Exactly!” Abu Haydar exclaims, as if his student has just tumbled to the correct answer to a problem. “Who would do such a thing? Certainly not me. If I had known there were suicide bombers there, I wouldn’t have gone to the house.” He flashes another grin.

Mary studies her notes and avoids his gaze, allowing Abu Haydar to dominate the discussion. His eyes never leave her face. Mary plays with her pen, tapping on the side of her notepad as she thinks through her next move.

“Look, Abu Raja has already admitted he knew there were suicide bombers at the house.”

Actually, he hasn’t, not yet anyway, but that’s a good move. Mary’s running the We Know All approach on him.

She continues, “We know that Abu Raja arranged the meeting. We also know that Abu Gamal wired the suicide vests.”

Abu Haydar’s smile remains undimmed. He sits politely and seems totally unfazed by what he’s just heard.

“It isn’t hard to figure out that you were there to videotape their last rites.”

Abu Haydar measures his words. He starts with, “Perhaps…but the truth is I didn’t know that before I arrived.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was just as shocked as you would have been when I walked into that house and saw those foreigners there. I’d been asked to videotape a wedding.”

“Wait,” Mary asks, unable to conceal a note of excitement, “how did you know they were foreigners?”

Abu Haydar sighs. The student has asked a foolish question, but all must be answered no matter how silly. “Would you not know the difference between Americans and Euro
peans?” He frames his answer with a condescending smile that Mary either misses or chooses to ignore. As he waits for her response, he strokes his beard again.

“Where were these foreigners from?”

“I did not ask them. I did not have time. We had just arrived when your helicopters showed up.”

Mary retreats to her notebook. She scribbles something, then, without looking up, she changes gears again. “You know you won’t be here much longer, right?”

Abu Haydar offers no response.

“You won’t have many more chances to cooperate.”

She lets that sink in. Abu Haydar appears unconcerned. He stops stroking his beard and places his hand back in his lap. He looks very proper and well mannered.

“They’re going to transfer you to Abu Ghraib.”

Mary’s trying to intimidate him. But he’s much too smart for that. He sits unblinking, his eyes fixed on her head.

She looks up at him. “Do you want to go back to Abu Ghraib? Do you really want to risk the court again? You were released on a two-to-one vote. Do you think the judges will be so lenient next time?”

Abu Haydar lets out a long sigh. One hand comes up from his lap, palm out, in a gesture of openness. “Young lady, I will simply be forced to tell them the same thing I’ve told you. Abu Raja asked me to bring a camera and film a wedding. That’s all.”

Mary gets angry, “Who’s going to believe that ridiculous story?”

“Do you have a better one?” Abu Haydar counters.

“Sure. How about this: Abu Raja asked you to go with
him to videotape suicide bombers before they went on their mission. You knew they were going to be there.”

“And you have this on film?” Abu Haydar asks. It is the sly question of a defense attorney. He asks the question because he knows the answer.

Mary glowers at him. “There was nothing on the tape,” she admits.

“Then it is not a better story,” he dismisses it with a wave of his hand.

No, he’s not dismissing her version. He just dismissed her.

Abu Haydar knows our system because he went through it four months ago. Knowing that Mary can’t touch him, he exudes confidence. I bet he could beat the rap, too. There’s no evidence to counter his story, save common sense.

“Fine,” Mary spits at him. She’s clearly infuriated and frustrated. “You can go back to your cell and think about your upcoming court date at Abu Ghraib. I hope the judges are as sympathetic as last time. Put on your mask.”

Abu Haydar slowly reaches to the floor and picks up his mask. As he pulls it over his face, I see his devilish grin disappear under the black cloth.