How to Break a Terrorist (6 page)

Treat them with respect and be sensitive to their cultural traditions.

Thirty men and boys lie executed in a field somewhere.

How can I do this job and not be consumed with hate? I don’t want to become Lenny. I don’t want to dehumanize my enemy. Yet what I just watched seems like pure evil.

I’ve never seen the world in terms of good and evil. To me that smacks of a religious overtone, a judgment call that
we should not be making. Instead, I see the world in terms of tolerance. Ignorance versus knowledge. Fear versus understanding. These two videos are displays of hatred so fierce that it drives men to depravity. It is the hatred that I hate.

If I don’t make a conscious choice about how to respond, my emotions will take over.

Pure hate. Pure malice. Torture and cruelty are their tools. To fight them, should I resort to hate? To bitterness and jaded contempt? Is that what it means to be a veteran ’gator around here?

I won’t go down that path. There is no way it can exist alongside a yearning for peace and compassion. Intolerance must be rooted out if Iraq is to have a chance. Either way you look at it, the new ways work better. Hate and contempt don’t get our prisoners talking. Yet after what I’ve seen today, I realize that it will take an Oscar-caliber performance in the interrogation booth to display the necessary respect and sympathy for my enemy.

APRIL
10, 2006

T
HE BLACK HELICOPTERS
speed low across the ancient, checkerboard landscape of Yusufiyah. Stretching to the horizon is land that saw the evolution from nomad to city dweller at the heart of our efforts toward civilization. And for some five thousand years, since the rise of Sumer, Babylon, and the great Assyrian kings, it has been a dark heart riddled with violence and anguish.

Whump-whump-whump
, helicopter rotor blades pound out a drumbeat that resonates across the countryside like a tribal warning.

The Americans are coming.

The helicopters streak toward their target. The soldiers sit just above each skid, legs dangling in the wind, with only a D-ring and a belt to keep them from free-falling onto some Iraqi’s farm. While such a method of travel would scare most civilians into a catatonic state, these men are veterans. They hold their weapons steady, even as their bodies are buffeted by the hundred-mile-an-hour slipstream.

The target, the farmhouse that Abu Ali gave up and Zaydan confirmed, swings into sight. For weeks, our part-time surveillance has uncovered nothing. But today, our asset spotted a blue truck and a white sedan parked out front. The soldiers launched within minutes.

The helicopters alight in precise positions around the farmhouse. The Special Forces spring into action, charging across open ground for the house.

Two men wearing bulky black vests try to escape from a back door. When the soldiers move to intercept them, they realize these men are human bombs. The vests bristle with explosives. The Americans have closed the gap; it is too late for the bombers to back off. The lead human bomb intuits this and with a sudden rush sprints toward the nearest American soldier, hoping to kill as many Americans as possible as he ignites. He doesn’t get that chance. An M4 carbine barks. The suicide bomber spins violently, a bullet hole in his forehead. He manages to detonate himself as he falls, but the
blast is focused into the ground and away from the soldiers who stand just ten meters away. The bomber’s body is torn in half. Part of him lands in a ditch, his head scooped out, his eyes wide and horrified. Nobody who lives through such an attack can forget the sight of what C-4 explosive does to human flesh. It slices torsos, dismembers limbs, and extracts organs.

The other bomber goes down with another head shot before he can blow himself up. The two external threats are neutralized. Now the strike team must force its way into the house.

Every room must be cleared. Even the most benign farmhouse can become a death trap for American soldiers. Is there another bomber in the house? Are there insurgents lying in ambush, AK rifles shouldered, fingers on the triggers? Clearing a house is one of the most dangerous tasks a soldier can perform in Iraq. Al Qaida operatives sometimes wire their own safe houses with explosives. The entire house could be one big IED, ready to kill anyone who sets foot inside. It takes unique courage to go through a door not knowing what waits on the other side.

The entry team hits the front door, using violence and speed to overwhelm anyone who might resist, and catches a trio of suicide bombers in the front room. They hesitate; the Americans do not.

Shots ring out. Three more suicide bombers die before they can detonate.

The soldiers work from room to room in the one-story house, covering the hallways as they move. A swift kick on a door, and they push into a room, M4s at the ready. The first room is empty. The men move down the hall and kick in the
door to the next room. Also empty. One more to go. They stack up and inch to the door. A gentle rock backward tells the other soldiers that the lead man is ready. The others push forward in response: everyone’s ready to go. They kick in the door and pour inside.

This room is not empty. Not by a long shot.

APRIL
10, 2006

W
E HAVE SOMETHING
significant today,” announces Captain Randy as he plants a boot on his chair. The whole interrogation team is here, gathered for the 11
A.M.
meeting in the conference room just off the ’gator pit.

“Earlier this morning, one of the teams caught five Iraqi males in a farmhouse. The team also killed five foreign suicide bombers in the raid.” Randy pauses for effect. Even on the slowest days he can get our attention. We’ve been in country for only a few weeks, but his relentless energy has set a brisk pace for our unit. He is seemingly immune to exhaustion, and behind his back we’ve debated if he’s even human. But this morning he doesn’t need tricks to get our attention.

“The guys we picked up are well dressed and well educated. These are not your typical lowlifes building bombs in their basement. As of now, they are our top priority.”

Randy pauses, then continues, “It’s time to turn it up a notch. You’ve all heard what the colonel keeps telling us. These guys could be very close to Zarqawi. Let’s get after them!”

Randy throws in a few expletives for effect, and the meeting breaks up.

We rush to the ’gator pit. Bobby and I are teamed with Cliff again. He comes over, leans on my desk as he wipes his nose, and says, “Care for some photos?” He hands a file folder to me, and I extract one. It is beyond horrible. The suicide bomber blew himself in half. His entrails blend with the earth below his torso. His face is pale and his black beard, thin and sharp, forms an outline around his face.

“We need to get these guys identified, if possible.”

“What about evidence?” I ask Cliff while flipping through more photos of head shots.

“Not much. There was a video camera. Probably for filming last rites. There is a map of Baghdad that leads us to believe the targets were in Baghdad, but nothing definite.”

“Okay, so what are the prisoners saying so far?”

“All of them say they’d gone to the house to attend a wedding.”

“A wedding?” I ask, surprised. “Where was the bride?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. There was no bride.” Cliff pushes his John Lennon glasses back up his nose, then hands me a few more documents. I see that I’ve been assigned to a prisoner named Abu Gamal, who is in his early sixties. A white sedan and a blue truck had been parked in front of the farmhouse, and Abu Gamal had the keys to the sedan in his pocket.

I look up at the whiteboard where the day’s assignments
are written in blue ink. One of the other members of the Group of Five has been assigned to Nathan and Steve, and two members to Tom. The last member has been removed from the interrogations schedule by the doc for medical reasons.

“What else do we know about Abu Gamal?” I ask Cliff.

“Well, he was caught in the same room with the other four. They were all huddled in a circle. We have no idea where these guys fit into the network—or even what network, for that matter.”

Cliff pauses to blow his nose again. He tosses a tissue toward a wastebasket and misses.

“Sorry I can’t provide more background info.”

“Don’t worry,” I say and smile at Bobby. “We’ll work some magic.”

“Look, we’re starting from scratch here. Here’s what we need to know.”

I take notes as Cliff lays out the objectives for the day’s interrogation. “What group do they work for? Why were they at the house? Who’s in charge? Most important, though, we need to figure out where these guys fit in the chain of command. That’s the top priority for now.”

As Bobby runs to the refrigerator for the first of the day’s four Cokes, I ease into my chair. It groans in protest but holds firm. Its black plastic legs and wheels have been abused so badly that it rolls like a broken grocery cart.

I throw the one-page summary of yesterday’s raid onto the desk and study it again, searching for inspiration. Then I look back over the biographical sheet. Strategy is the key to any interrogation and to discovering a detainee’s motiva
tions. If I’ve identified what he wants, I can craft an incentive.

Bobby has watched me treat every detainee with civility and respect, and I do it because it is the right thing to do. But I also do it to establish rapport. The detainee and I will maneuver for position behind the mask of civility. Embedded in the initial small talk are loaded questions designed to unveil the unique passions that motivate or inspire him.

But we know nothing of Abu Gamal—he’s a blank slate. I’ll use basic questioning and approaches at first to see how he reacts to them. I go through a mental list of the approved approaches I might try in the first session.
Love of Family. Futility. Logical Reasoning. Fear Down. And rapport, always rapport. I’ll start with that
.

The best interrogators are outstanding actors. Once they hit that booth, their personalities are transformed. They can tuck their reactions and biases into some remote corner of their minds and allow a doppelgänger to emerge. What doppelgänger is most likely to elicit information from a detainee changes from prisoner to prisoner. Sometimes I must have a wife or children so I can swap stories with the prisoner, though I have neither. Who I will be for Abu Gamal is still unknown. The doppelgänger will take its cue from every scrap of information Abu Gamal gives me about his motivations.

Bobby comes over to my desk, a Coke in hand. We talk strategy for a couple of minutes, and then it is time to meet Abu Gamal.

THE INTERROGATION BOOTH
is kept intentionally sparse. It’s furnished with four plastic lawn chairs, the type found in any suburban backyard. The prisoners sit against a plywood wall. Our interpreter sits in a corner adjacent to the prisoner. Before Abu Gamal arrives, I place my chair only a few feet from where his is positioned. Bobby will sit slightly behind me, a white plastic table to his right so he can jot down notes.

A guard opens the door, and Abu Gamal enters in handcuffs. A black mask covers his head.

“How do you want him?” the guard asks.

The guard gives me a nod and uncuffs him. Abu Gamal rubs his wrists slightly as the cuffs come off. The guard helps him into his chair, then leaves. I hear the door shut behind me. We’re almost ready to begin.

I order Abu Gamal to take off his mask. He pulls it off, giving me my first look at him.

He reminds me of an aged mole. A wizened face with a long, rodent-like nose and small, dark eyes set back into a squarish face. His beard is patchy, a scruffy salt-and-pepper mix that has grown unevenly across his jawline and almost to his eyes. His eyebrows are arched upward as if he is already entreating our mercy. He looks nervous and he’s fiddling with his hands.

The interrogation begins.

We sit only a few feet apart, our legs almost touching. There’s nothing between the two of us, no table as buffer to give him a comfort zone. It is my symbolic way of letting him know that I respect him and I’m not afraid to get
personal. Some ’gators don’t like to get this close to the prisoners. When I was in training at Fort Huachuca, rumors circulated that an interrogator once caught tuberculosis from a detainee. I thought it was nothing more than a soldierly urban legend, no reason to forfeit the advantages of body language and presence that can advance an interrogation. It is vital to make sure there are no barriers between the ’gator and the prisoner.

What motivates you, Abu Gamal? What do you care about most?

“Peace be with you,” I say to him in Arabic.

He nods his head in return and replies, “Peace be upon you.”

“
Schlonik
?” This is Iraqi slang for
How are you?

Abu Gamal leans forward. He seems curiously eager. “I–I–I’m well, th–th–ank you.”

Is the stuttering nerves? Or is it a speech impediment?

I glance at Hadir, our interpreter. He’s ready. I switch to English, but I lock eyes with Abu Gamal. He needs to know the conversation is between us, despite the fact that it will flow through the ’terp. His eyes are very alert. He seems too ready, almost rehearsed.

“My name is Matthew and my coworker here is Bob. We look forward to working with you. I’m happy to have this opportunity to talk. How are you feeling?”

“I–I am f–f–f–fine.” The stuttering strikes me as an act.

“Are you thirsty?” I point to a liter of bottled water sitting nearby. The Geneva Conventions dictate that we have water in every interrogation room. We cannot deny it to any prisoner.

“No thank you.” He shakes his head and raises his hand, showing me his palm.

“Well, you’ve probably figured out why we are here.” I pause. The ’terp translates my words, and Abu Gamal nods. Before I can continue, he says something in a rapid-fire, staccato tone marred with frequent stutters. The ’terp listens, then translates, “I just want to help. Whatever I can do to help I will do.”

“Very good. Thank you. I’m glad you said that, my friend. I want to help you too.”

He nods again. As he waits for whatever I’m going to say next, I notice he’s folded his hands in his lap. Again, he leans forward. The body language is a “tell”—he’s itching to talk.

“Okay, I just want to find out how you came to be captured at the farmhouse yesterday. But before you tell me anything, I want to tell you that I intend to treat you with respect. I expect you to treat me with respect as well.”

Abu Gamal hears the translation and breaks into a wide grin. His hands come up, palms open. “I–I will answer any questions. I want to help you.” He’s obsequious.

“When I ask that you treat me with respect, I mean don’t lie to me.”

Abu Gamal reacts visibly to this. He shakes his head and assures me he will not lie.

“In return, I’ll take care of you. I’ll try to help you as best I can.”

“Thank you, Mister Matthew.” His hands return to his legs. He locks his fingers together and waits, eagerly anticipating my first serious question.

He acts like an innocent person—a bit nervous but wanting to assist. Maybe for once I’ll get the truth with direct questioning.

I look into Abu Gamal’s eyes—alert, canny, vulnerable—
and ask, “Okay, why don’t you tell me why you were at the farmhouse yesterday.”

Abu Gamal nods his head repeatedly as he answers, “I–I–I was paid to drive these guys there.”

“Who paid you?”

“Uh,” he hesitates for a heartbeat before answering, “Abu Raja did.”

“Abu Raja? Is he one of the men captured with you in the farmhouse?”

“Y–y–yes. Abu Raja.”

“How do you know him?”

“I met him one time through a friend.”

“Why did he hire you as a driver?”

“I–I don’t know.” Hadir mimicks Abu Gamal perfectly. He even duplicates his facial expressions for my benefit.

Abu Gamal’s not nervous. This obsequious act is the approach he’s running on me.

“How did you know where the house was?”

“Abu Raja knew where it was.”

I’m not buying this. I hear Bobby tapping his pen on his notepad, a sure indicator that he’s frustrated.

I look suitably astonished as I say, “Okay, let me get this straight. You only met Abu Raja one time, and he asks you to drive him to a house in the middle of nowhere? You weren’t worried about where he was taking you? What if it were someplace dangerous?”

Abu Gamal nods eagerly. “No. H–he paid me.”

I shift gears, “Tell me about the other guys. There were three others in the car besides Abu Raja, right?”

Abu Gamal leans back in his chair, as if to put distance between us. “Yes. B–but I don’t know them.”

“You don’t know them?” I try to sound surprised.

Abu Gamal nods.

“Okay, you have strangers in your car, you’re driving to a house in the middle of nowhere, and you don’t bother to ask what’s going on or if this might get you in trouble?”

Abu Gamal smiles sadly, as if he’d made a foolish mistake. “No. I–I was just paid to be a driver. That’s it.”

This is bullshit, and he’s distancing. Distancing is a classic resistance technique. A prisoner claims he wants to help, then confesses he doesn’t know anyone or anything.

Behind me, Bobby’s scribbling away, documenting everything going on in the booth. Hadir opens a can of Coke and takes a sip.

“Where are you from?”

“Baghdad.”

“What is your job in Baghdad?”

Abu Gamal hesitates before replying, “I–I own an electronics store.”

“Really?” I say. This interests me. “What sort of electronics?”

“I sell…stereos, VCRs, TVs, and kitchen appliances.”

As I digest this, he adds, “I also do repairs.”

I decide to follow up on that later.

“Tell me, how’s business right now? Is it good?”

Abu Gamal’s hands fly up and he waves one hand quickly from side to side. “N…no,” he says, “Not good at all. It’s actually really bad. It was good until the insurgency started, but then people stopped coming.”

“Who’s running your shop right now?”

Abu Gamal pretends to think about that for a moment. “My son.”

“Your son? Tell me about him. How old is he?”

“He’s thirty.”

“Is he married?”

“Yes he is.” Hadir notes that he sounds mildly disappointed at this.

“Does he have any kids?”

Abu Gamal shakes his head. “No. No children.”

Hadir translates this and mirrors his expression.

There’s something here. There’s a hint of Arab shame in that expression.

“Oh, so you don’t have grandkids?”

Abu Gamal matter-of-factly replies, “No. No.”

There’s no stutter now. Is he hiding something. Or being honest for a change?

“Where does your son live?”

“He lives with my wife and me.”

“And your son’s wife lives with you as well?”

“Yes.”

I decide to press the issue, “And they don’t have any kids?”

Abu Gamal again replies matter-of-factly. “No. His wife can’t have any.” He’s dropped his obsequious act. For a second, I see a flicker of disappointment on his face.

“I’m sorry to hear that, my friend.”

“She was not my first choice.”

I act concerned.

“I’m sorry. Whose choice was she?”

The doppelgänger I’ll use with him is starting to take shape.