How to Break a Terrorist (9 page)

You will always be the first star in the night sky, my love. I think of you now, and the memory of your face sustains me.

I am so sorry for everything that I have done. I love you, and always have. You must know that I have been captured.

You have always loved me without reservations, even when I hurt you. I want you to know that I am divorcing Farah. Please, take our son, take all the money, and leave Iraq. Start fresh someplace safe, and remember me. Remember the best times, and forgive me for my mistakes. I beg of you to forgive me.

I would endure ten thousand lashes just to see your face again.

Hadir and I share a shocked moment of silence. He’s written a love letter to his first wife, not a breakup one to his second. He’s using his one chance to communicate outside this prison to set things right, not to justify his desire for divorce. It is hard not to be touched.

But we still have work to do. I leave the divorce petition and the letter on my desk. Hadir and I return to the booth and sit down. Now comes the payoff—we hope.

“Look, my friend. I’ve done this for you because I think you are a decent person. I understand why people are doing the things they are in Iraq. You don’t have many choices.”

Abut Gamal shakes his head sadly. “No, we do not.”

“You have to support your family. I’m a family man, too and know I’d do the same thing. I’m not here to judge you.”

Abu Gamal agrees with me, “Family is important.”

“I’ve done something for you. Now I need you to do something for me.”

“Inshallah.”

“All I’m asking you to do is tell me the obvious. Tell me the things we already know.”

Abu Gamal replies with a curt nod. I just want him to
start talking, start telling me the truth of what happened at the farmhouse.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes I am ready.”

“Tell me why you were at the farmhouse.”

Without the slightest hesitation, Abu Gamal replies, “I was there to make the suicide vests.”

His confession carries no emotion.

He’s the bomb maker.

“Did you make all of them?”

No hesitation, “Yes I did.”

Inside, I’m jubilant. Outside, I’m calm and matter-of-fact. Nothing fazes me.

How much can we get? How far will he go?

“Why were the other people at the house?”

He shakes his head, “I don’t know. I really don’t.”

Is he still protecting the others? If so, why? His confession is more than enough to send him to the hangman’s noose.

“But you made the vests?”

“Yes.”

“Did you bring the explosives?”

“No, they were already at the house.” He pauses after that revelation. I can see he’s thinking, trying to decide how far he wants to go.

In for a dollar….

“I wired the vests. That is my job.”

Electrician in the army, stereo salesman as a civilian, he’s turned to bomb-making to earn a living in wartime.

“My friend, have you made other vests?”

He waves a hand. It is almost a dismissive gesture. “Yes. I’ve made many.”

“Have you made other things besides vests?”

He looks down at the floor, takes a breath and replies, “Yes. I’ve made roadside bombs as well.”

“What about car bombs?” I ask.

“No. I did not work on those. I worked on the wiring for the roadside bombs. Sometimes, I would build in a transistor or a unique detonator system.”

“What did you use for that?”

“Garage door openers, stereo remote controls, and cell phones. I never worked with the explosives. Just the wiring.”

“How many bombs have you built?”

His face is dead as he answers, “Hundreds.”

“Hundreds?”

“Yes. Hundreds.”

That could be over a thousand victims. Americans and Iraqis. He’s a mass murderer.

“How much do you get for this work?”

“Fifty dollars per job.”

Thousands dead so his wife could wear lipstick, blue jeans, and bling.

“I can understand that. You needed the money.”

“Yes, I have…had…two wives to support. I want you to know Mister Matthew, I did not plant the bombs. I just built them.”

“I understand. If you didn’t build them, then someone else would have.”

“Yes, Mister Matthew. I just helped make them.”

“I understand.” I nod very slightly. I’m very careful
with my nonverbal cues. I want my sympathy to seem genuine.

“So you went to the farmhouse to wire the suicide vests.”

“Yes.”

We’ve got to get him talking about the Group of Five. I want to see how far this break will take us.

“Abu Gamal, how long have you known Abu Raja?”

His right hand comes up to his chin. He’s deliberating.

“I have not known him that long.”

Damn. I thought he’d tell us something new.

“But you’ve done all these vests,” I interject.

He remains silent. Behind his eyes I see a new emotion. Defeat. Abu Gamal knows what he’s just done. He’s given up his own life. That was his only asset in this negotiation. He’s confessed, and he knows he will hang now. But his desire to honor our deal as well as his sense of obligation to his wife, his true love, propels him to continue giving us information.

“Who else were you working with?”

“I would get assignments, but I would not know the people.”

Usually, by this time Hadir is in dire need of a smoke. This afternoon, he’s riveted.

“Where would you go to do the work?”

“Different places. I can’t remember.”

I won’t let him go back in his shell.

“Okay, just tell me one place you went. You must remember one place.”

“No. I didn’t know where I was.”

“Tell me about Abu Raja.”

“I’ve told you all I know already.”

He knows that if he talks, Al Qaida will kill his wife and son. He’d rather die than let that happen.

“My friend, where did you go? Would Abu Raja tell you where to go?”

“Sometimes. I would get assignments, but I wouldn’t know the people. They would either pick me up or have a taxi come to get me.”

“Okay, just tell me one place, any place, where you built a bomb.”

“I don’t remember.”

He’s made himself the sacrifice here, but he’s protecting everyone else. I don’t want to get frustrated with him. He’s already come far in this session and I don’t want to drive him away. I must use what little trust I’ve won.

“My friend, I helped you get a divorce, and now I’m asking you to help me. You must be able to remember at least one place. One place where you put together vests. I need something.”

Abu Gamal considers this. He strokes his patchy beard, fingers on his chin. He is staring at me, sizing me up. And then he talks.

“Okay.”

We wait. Bobby starts tapping his pen. Hadir crosses his arms.

“Th–there was this house, an apartment…”

His stutter is back. Is he nervous? Disingenuous? I can’t tell.

“Where was this house?”

“Apartment.”

“Yes, apartment.”

“It was in a small town in Yusufiyah.”

“If I show you a map, will you show it to me?”

A deep breath. His eyes roam. There’s no escape, not now.

“My friend, I did something for you. I helped you. Now I’m asking you to help me. It’s just one place.”

“Okay, I will show you.”

I fire up the laptop on the table and bring up a digital map on the flat-screen TV on the wall. With Abu Gamal’s help, we navigate from Baghdad to the Yusufiyah countryside and make our way over the Euphrates River to a small village. Abu Gamal strains to read the map but then recognizes a soccer field and from there points out the apartment that he visited. It’s third in a row of white two-story buildings. It’ll be our next Special Forces target.

“Abu Raja would tell me to go to places, such as this one, then he’d pay me.”

“You’ve never seen the other four men before?”

“No. This was the first time I worked with them.”

“You drove together, the five of you in your car?”

“Yes.”

“Who spoke in the car?”

Hesitation. His eyes find the floor. He’s frowning now. Either he’s thinking about what to give us, or he’s going to give up.

“Abu Raja and Abu Haydar spoke to each other.”

That’s something. Press it.

“Did Abu Haydar speak formally with Abu Raja?”

“No, he spoke informally to him.”

That’s a big clue. Abu Haydar is at least Abu Raja’s equal. We know that now.

“Who was in charge?”

Abu Gamal doesn’t respond.

“My friend, I can protect your family. No one will know it came from you.”

“I’m sorry, I cannot help you further, Mister Matthew. I have to think of my family.”

He knows I can’t protect them.

For another hour, we try to coax a few more details out of Abu Gamal without success. Finally, I see we’re not going to get anything else out of him. It is time to end our relationship.

“My friend, I will do what I can to help you. But you have not talked about the others, so what I can do is limited.”

“I know. Thank you, Mister Matthew. I cannot help further.”

With those words, Abu Gamal retreats inside himself again. I suspect he has no loyalty to Abu Raja and the others. He doesn’t care about their cause. It’s fear for his family that keeps him from breaking wide open.

I wish him luck. He stares at me in despair. “Good-bye, Mister Matthew. Thank you for helping me.”

He puts on his black mask, and the guard comes to retrieve him. Bobby, Hadir, and I return to the ’gator pit and pass on the apartment’s location to Captain Randy. He gives us an
Attaboy
and immediately heads over to see the Special Forces commander. By the time I finish drafting my report of the interrogation, I can hear their helicopters spinning up on the launchpads a hundred meters from the front door.

Meanwhile, Abu Gamal’s fate is sealed. He’ll soon be transferred to Abu Ghraib and will ultimately keep his date with the prison’s executioner.

I hear Special Forces helicopters lift off the pads. I pick up Abu Gamal’s divorce petition and the letter to his wife.

Abu Gamal traded his life for a chance to seek forgiveness from his beloved wife. He gave himself up to get this letter out and set right his mistakes. He thought the divorce decree liberated him from Farah and all the trouble she caused him.

But the letter—I could get it to his wife. I could slip it in the mail. I have her address. The Iraqi postal service does work. I’m tempted to do it because I feel empathy for him. He tried to redeem himself and he helped me.

Hundreds. He made hundreds of bombs.

Women. Little kids. Old men. Merchants. Customers. Friends. Neighbors. They were all blown to pieces—for what? Because a stereo salesmen got himself in a bind and couldn’t afford his second wife’s appetite for the good life.

He traded his soul for jeans and jewelry. He traded his life to undo the damage with his wife but never once showed remorse for the people he’d helped to kill. The doppelgänger that grew out of our relationship dies with that realization. I am me again, the major with an obligation—not to a wife or children but to the victims of those bombs. They are the reason I volunteered to come to Iraq.

Interrogators are not meant to be arbiters of justice. We simply gather information. The court at Abu Ghraib metes out punishment, and the distinction is clear and inviolable.

Except this one time.

I rise from my desk, letter and divorce petition in hand.
The Special Forces helicopters thunder overhead, speeding for Yusufiyah and the target Abu Gamal has given us.

He is a mass murderer who loved his wife. That one human connection does not redeem him in my eyes. He forfeited that right the first time he wired a vest. Certainly his victims, dead or maimed beyond recognition—the shattered limbs, the torn and bloodied faces—did not receive mercy. Abu Gamal may not have been motivated by money but he was still a barren human being.

I decide to deny him his shot at redemption.

The sound of the Blackhawks ebbs and the bustle of the ’gator pit surrounds me.

Into our shredder I feed Abu Gamal’s last hope. The shreds fall into a wastebasket, anonymous and soon forgotten.

R
ANDY IS MORE
agitated at the morning meeting than usual. The task force commander called earlier looking for an update and found his report wanting. We’re falling behind, and the attacks in Baghdad increase daily.

No pressure or anything.

We begin to go through the detainees we have in the prison. The eleven o’clock meeting allows the previous shift to tell the oncoming shift—’gators, analysts, and support personnel—what’s been accomplished in the previous twelve hours. Today, the mood is somber. Aside from Abu Gamal, we haven’t had much luck.

Photos of Abu Bayda and Abu Haydar flash up on the flat-screen at the front of the room. Lenny stands.

“Neither of them are talking,” he tells us.

Randy mutters
damn
under his breath.

“Recommendation?” Randy asks.

Lenny thinks about it.

“Retain and exploit both.”

“Agreed.”

Randy turns to the flat-screen at the front of the room, and Abu Raja’s face appears.

Nathan stands up; Steve, who’s been working with Nathan on my shift, stays seated next to him.

“Detainee provided no targets, but we’re close. He’s pretty worn out. We’re going to run a new approach on him today and continue to hit him with the information that Abu Gamal provided.”

“Good. For God’s sake, get something out of him.”

Randy stands, puts a foot up on his chair, and leans with an arm on his knee.

“Let’s look at what we have here people. We’ve got five well-dressed guys in a farmhouse full of suicide bombers. One’s admitted to being the bomb maker. The other four are still sticking to the
I don’t know shit
story. They all have different excuses for being at the house, and none of them adds up. They concocted that line of crap on the fly, just before our team entered the house. We know what they were doing at the house, but we don’t know who they are or how they fit into Al Qaida’s network. But at least three of them—Abu Bayda, Abu Raja, and Abu Haydar—are big fish. We’ve got to figure this out, okay? As of now, these three guys are the top priority. We’ve got to be relentless. We’re close, I can feel it.”

Steve and Nathan nod. They sense it, too. There’s something about the Group of Five that has all of our instincts buzzing.

“Okay, moving on. We’ve got some personnel changes Bobby’s leaving us to go to an outstation.”

My heart sinks. Bobby and I have a rhythm going.

“Also, as you know, this is David’s last day. Matthew’s our new senior interrogator. That’s it.”

The meeting breaks up and those people getting off shift exit the room. My shift of interrogators stays behind, waiting for me to give them their assignments based on Randy’s priorities. I match up the detainees with the ’gators on my team and then read out the assignments. After I finish, I go to the whiteboard and draw out the assignments with a marker.

I see that someone has already put up a Randyism for the day.
There is no theory of evolution. Just a list of creatures Randy has allowed to live.

Steve and Cliff are discussing strategy for the next round with Abu Raja. Abu Gamal has given us enough information to use our We Know All approach. I can’t wait to watch Steve in action from the Hollywood room. He’s built up a rapport with Abu Raja and now he’s going to try and cash it in.

Twenty minutes later, Abu Raja sits across from Steve in the interrogation booth, his knees locked together and his hands dug deep into the tight space between his legs. He hunches slightly, and his toes turn inward on the concrete floor. He looks totally drained. Steve, on the other hand, is full of vitality. He starts off with small talk and then begins asking questions.

“We know you weren’t in the house to film a wedding, Abu Raja. So let’s not begin with that today, okay? It’s insulting.”

Abu Raja mumbles something. The microphone in the room doesn’t pick it up, and in the Hollywood room, I turn up the volume on my headset. Abu Raja has a maddening habit of talking very quickly under his breath. He needs no
’terp because he speaks fluent English with a slight British accent. He’s one of the best-educated Iraqis we’ve seen here at the compound.

“What did you say?” Steve asks.

Abu Raja runs a hand over his bald head. He has tufts of unruly black hair cresting his skull at ear level as though middle age has given him a reverse mohawk.

“I said, I’m very sorry sir. I will help you if I can.”

“Okay, good. What were you doing at the farmhouse?”

“I was there to attend a wedding.”

Steve gets pissed at this answer, “That’s bullshit and you know it. You think I’m an idiot?”

“No. No, sir. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

“Good. Look, you know we found you in a house with five suicide bombers.”

No answer.

“And you know what the punishment is for that under Iraqi law, right?”

Abu Raja looks morose—no, he looks absolutely lost. He answers, “Yes. Death.”

“I don’t want to see you die. You’re a good guy, Abu Raja. Iraq needs your skills as a doctor. It would be a tragedy to lose them.”

No response. His frown grows long. I wonder if he’s going to cry. He pulls a sweaty hand from between his legs and adjusts his glasses. His eyes stay fixed on the floor.

“How long have you been a pediatrician?”

“Ten years, sir.”

“Do you like being a doctor? Working with kids?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“Wouldn’t you want to get back to your real calling?”

“Yes, sir. But I know that’s not going to happen.”

“Not necessarily. If you help us, I will help you.”

Abu Raja nods.

“Last time we talked about your mother.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is she?”

“We live in Baghdad.”

Genuine concern fills Steve’s voice.

“Who is looking after her right now?”

“Nobody, sir.” Abu Raja’s voice cracks as he replies.

“I know you said your father died when you were young, but tell me again, how did he die?”

Abu Raja rocks backwards and plunges his hand back between his legs.

“I was ten. He was a soldier. The Iranians captured him. After three years, he died in their prison.” The Iranians were notorious for torturing Iraqi prisoners of war.

I adjust my headset, turn the volume up a little more, and scoot my chair closer to the monitor. The camera is focused right on Abu Raja’s face. His expression is pained. He’s not going to last long against Steve.

“I am sorry to hear that. You must not like what Iran is doing to your country now, then.”

Bitterly he replies, “They arm the Shia against us. The death squads. The militias.”

“Iraq has suffered many hardships.”

“Yes.”

“You have suffered many hardships.”

“Yes.”

“So has your mother.”

No response.

“Let me help you. We want to work with you Abu Raja. We want to build a strong Iraq.”

His head slowly lifts. His eyes settle on Steve at last.

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me the truth. What were you doing in the house? But wait—before you answer, you need to know something.”

“What?”

“We know you’re married to Abu Gamal’s cousin.”

Shock registers on Abu Raja’s face.

“The others have been talking. If you want to cut a deal with us, if you want us to help you, now’s the time. We know almost everything, thanks to the others. So be honest with me, okay?”

Abu Raja slowly nods. He knows the jig is up.

“Good. What were you doing in the farmhouse?”

“I was told to go there by a friend.” Finally, he’s given Steve something.

“Who is your friend?”

“Yes, sir. A friend.”

“What is his name?” Steve sounds slightly frustrated.

Abu Raja picks this up as well.

“His name is Abu Shafiq.”

I lean back in my chair and whisper, “Attaboy, Steve. Keep him talking.”

“Why did Abu Shafiq want you at the farmhouse?”

“He did not say, sir.”

“My friend,” Steve says. “The truth.”

“I tell you the truth.”

“Did you know you would be meeting suicide bombers there?”

Desperation suffuses Abu Raja’s voice, “I did not know about any suicide bombers.”

“I don’t believe that. You’re insulting me again.”

“I am sorry, sir. I am sorry. I was just told by Abu Shafiq to pick up Abu Haydar.”

“Why?”

“To videotape a wedding.”

“A wedding?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who is Abu Shafiq?”

“A friend.”

“Where do you meet him?”

“At the Mansur Mosque. Or sometimes we meet at a falafel stand.”

“Will you show me on a map?”

“Yes.”

Steve brings up a map using the laptop computer on the table and the flat-screen television on the wall. Abu Raja studies it and picks out a street corner used by the falafel stand.

“Is Abu Shafiq a friend, or is he your boss?”

A long pause. This is the moment. He’s going to break, I can feel it. Steve’s brought his A-game.

“My boss.”

Now we have the next rung on the ladder to Zarqawi.

“Tell me about him.”

“I know nothing about him. I’ve told you everything I know.”

Steve changes approaches.

“Abu Raja, you’re a very intelligent man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Why give up your career and join Al Qaida?”

No response.

“Come on, be honest.”

Abu Raja’s hands come out from between his legs. For once he sits confidently and looks Steve straight in the eye.

“The Iranians use the Shia to kill us. The Shia take our jobs away. They kidnap our people. They terrorize our neighborhoods. Every day, I see friends disappear only to turn up dead days later. They bind their hands. Torture them.”

He holds back tears and anger. Steve’s compassion is remarkable. He reaches out and touches Abu Raja’s knee.

“You Americans don’t stop this. You let this happen. People like me, we had no choice. Only Al Qaida offered us hope. Only Al Qaida came to help us.”

“We want to work with you, Abu Raja.”

The bitterness returns, “You
caused
this.”

“Why did you go to the house?”

Abu Raja sounds exasperated, “Because I was told to go there by Abu Shafiq.”

“To do what?”

“I was just told to pick up Abu Haydar so he could videotape.”

“Okay, we’re going in circles here. I can’t help you unless
you help me. I’m out of time for today. Let’s talk again tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

A guard retrieves Abu Raja and takes him away. A few minutes later, Steve and I meet in the ’gator pit. Cliff comes over, and the three of us dissect the intelligence. Abu Raja’s given us our first lead upward from the Group of Five. Now we know their boss. If Abu Shafiq can assemble a group of suicide bombers with educated Iraqis then he must have power and control. He’s got to be only one or at most two steps removed from Zarqawi. The trail is hot again.