Bloodmoney (35 page)

Kirby’s team had hooded the prisoner, as much to protect their identities as to frighten him. He had revived on the way, thanks to an antidote that counteracted the effects of the tranquilizer. His first query in the van was about his dog, and he seemed very happy when the curly-haired poodle was placed in his lap, even though little Émile was still out cold. He asked a few more frantic questions—where he was, who had taken him, what he had done—but Major Kirby had been instructed not to talk to him, and Sabah eventually gave up.

The ersatz Croix-Rouge van pulled into the driveway around eight p.m. The garage door cranked up to receive them, and the hooded man was gingerly removed from the vehicle and trundled indoors to the living room, where the hood was exchanged for a blindfold and he was offered food and drink.

The interrogator, who called himself “Sam,” sat across from Sabah. He had flown in that day from the big CIA station in Paris. Sophie Marx sat in the next chair, a notebook on her lap.

Sam turned on a tape recorder. His voice was deep and insistent. He spoke stiff French, with a noticeable accent.

“Nous sommes prets a commencer, Monsieur Sabah. Si vous coopérez et vous nous donnez des informations correctes, ce sera un processus très simple, et vous serriez libre. Mais si vous résistez ou mentez, vous serriez en grand difficulté, je vous assure. Vous vous merderiez!”

He paused, to let the gravity of his words sink in, but Sabah was smiling.

“You are American!” the prisoner said in English. “I am not so frightened now. I thought you might be Al-Qaeda.”

Sabah’s smile widened incongruously below the blindfold. He looked genuinely relieved to have been abducted by Americans.

The interrogator looked at Sophie Marx. She shrugged: She didn’t understand it, either.

“We are nobody,” said the interrogator, speaking now in English. “The question is: Who are you?”

“My name is Joseph Sabah. I work at SWIFT, in the data processing center. But you know that, of course. I am your man.”

Marx opened her hands, palms up, as if to say,
I don’t get it
.

“We have some questions for you, Mr. Sabah,” continued the interrogator. “Are you ready to talk with us now?”

“Yes, of course. Why not? Can I take off this blindfold?”

The interrogator slapped Sabah across the cheek, almost knocking him from the chair. His cheek reddened immediately as blood rushed to the skin.

“No questions from you, Mr. Sabah, just answers. Got that?”

“Yes, okay, sorry.” He was sniffling away tears.

“How long have you worked at SWIFT?”

“Eleven years. No, twelve years.”

“In that time, has anyone from outside SWIFT ever asked you for help in accessing wire-transfer records?”

“Yes, of course. Twice.”

The interrogator looked at Marx again. She gave another shrug, then rolled her finger as if to say,
Let’s keep going
.

“The first time was, I don’t know, it was several years after September 11, maybe in 2005. There was a group of us at SWIFT. It was official. Secret, yes, but the management had agreed to help trace the money of Al-Qaeda. But you know this.”

Sam looked to Marx for guidance. She motioned that he should join her outside the room. Sabah waited, mute in his blindfold, while they conferred. They returned a minute later.

“We know about the Terrorist Surveillance Program,” said the interrogator. “The Treasury Department organized it. It was in the newspapers. But it was stopped. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes, that was the first time I was asked for help on wire transfers. It was very official, no problem. I was not important in that. They needed someone who spoke Arabic. I had a security clearance from SWIFT, so I was okay. I processed some requests, so I was cleared into the program.”

Marx held up two fingers. Sam nodded.

“What about the second time? When did that begin?”

“About a year ago. I do not have the exact date, but I can get it for you.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Okay, but you know. One of your people contacted me. His name was George. He said that you, America, were starting the program again but this time it had to be very secret. I could not talk about it with anyone at SWIFT. My contact said that he would give me account numbers and ask me to trace any transfers from them. That was it. I probably did twenty or thirty in the last year, maybe more.”

“How did you know he was an American?”

“He said so. He had an American name. He was calling from an American cell phone number, “seven-oh-three,” in Virginia, I think. And he knew about the earlier program. He said he had been a consultant before. He knew the names and procedures. That was how I was sure that he must be telling me the truth.”

“Did you meet him?”

“Only once, in the beginning. After that we spoke by telephone or sent emails.”

The interrogator shook his head. “You’re a fucking liar,” he said.

Sam looked like he was about to hit the prisoner again, but Marx raised her arm for him to stop and motioned that they should leave the room and confer again.

This time they took a little longer. When the interrogator returned, his tone was softer.

“I’m sorry for what I said before, Mr. Sabah. There was no need for me to swear at you. I apologize.”

“Thank you, sir. I am not an enemy. Please do not treat me like one.”

“Let’s go back to the man who was your contact the second time. Where did you meet him?”

“In a hotel in Brussels. The Conrad, I think. It was on Avenue Louise.”

“What did he look like, this man?”

“I did not see very well. It was dark in the room, and he was wearing sunglasses. I know you do that, you people, for disguise. I understand. His first name was George and his last name was very American, like George Washington or something. I forget. I assumed that was not his real name.”

“Did he have an accent, this ‘George’ who you met in the hotel?”

“Yes, a little. He might have been from Britain originally, or India. I don’t know. Everyone is from somewhere. That’s what I thought.”

“Is it possible that he was from Pakistan?”

“I suppose so. I am from Lebanon myself but I don’t call myself Lebanese. I say that I am a Belgian. He said he was an American. And he knew things that only an American who was part of the secret program before would know.”

“Things like what?”

“He knew procedures, code names, techniques, all of the little details. They were things that it would be impossible to know unless you had been part of the program. That was how I knew he was okay.”

“Are you a Muslim, Mr. Sabah?”

“
Pas de tout.
I am a Maronite Catholic. My family fought against the Muslims in Lebanon. We hate the Muslims. That was one of the things that I talked about with the American man when we first met in the hotel. He said that he hated the Muslims, too, and all the terrible things that they had done. He made fun of the suicide bombers. That was another bond between us. He knew about my family, the village we were from in the Metn District. He knew all that. That was another reason I knew he must have been sent from the CIA, because he had all this information.”

“When George called you after that, where would he be calling from?”

“Different places. Paris, London, Amsterdam. He traveled a lot. He had a Swiss cell phone, too, not just the American one. Different numbers. He was a technical man. He went to conferences. That was one of the things that made me trust him. We talked about science when we first met.”

Marx was scribbling frantically on a page of her notebook as Sabah talked. She tore off the sheet and handed it to Sam. The interrogator read it and looked curiously at Marx, wondering if she really wanted him to ask those questions, but she nodded emphatically.

“Who is Perihilion, Mr. Sabah?”

The prisoner’s jaw dropped in surprise.

“That is the code name of the man we have been talking about, sir, George. He used that name when he called me, so that I would know it was him.”

“And who is Aphelion?”

“That is me, my code name. But you know that, of course. That is what I do not understand. Why are you putting me in a blindfold and asking me these questions when it is your operation we are talking about?”

Marx beckoned for the interrogator to follow her out of the room once more. This time the conversation lasted nearly thirty minutes, and then Marx called Hoffman back in Washington to get his approval for what she wanted to do. Hoffman had to consult someone, and then there was another long call. Then a Support officer from the station was summoned to put together simple disguises for Marx and the interrogator, Sam; wigs and glasses and makeup.

They sent in more food and water for Sabah while he was waiting. When they returned to the living room, the interrogator removed Sabah’s blindfold. The captive put his head in his hands. He didn’t want to look at them at first, as if that might be taboo.

This time it was Marx who spoke first.

“I want to apologize, Mr. Sabah. I was here before during the interrogation, but you could not see me. We are sorry for the difficulty we have caused you. There were some things that we didn’t understand, but now they are clear. Please accept our regrets for any pain or inconvenience.”

“My apology, too, sir,” said Sam in the most contrite voice he could muster. “I sincerely regret my behavior. I should not have hit you.”

“Now we need your help, Mr. Sabah,” continued Marx. “I know that’s a lot to ask, after what we put you through, but I hope that you will be willing to cooperate with us. We would also like to offer you financial compensation for the injury we have done to you, if you are prepared to sign a release. But we can talk about that later.”

Sabah had been rubbing his eyes after the blindfold was removed, like a mole emerging from his hole in the ground and adjusting to the light. Now he looked at them warily, especially at Marx. He had not realized there was a woman present during the earlier interrogation.

“Who are you, please?” he asked Marx.

“I am an American intelligence officer. So is my colleague here. My name is Edith Halsey and this is Mr. Samuel Potter. You can call the U.S. Embassy and ask for the regional security officer. He will vouch for us.”

She handed him a piece of paper with her new alias and a telephone number at the embassy written on it. He put it in the pocket of his blue jeans.

“What do you want from me?” asked Sabah. “This is very confusing.”

“It’s been confusing for us, too, if that’s any consolation. But I think now we understand it better. The man who contacted you, who called himself George and gave himself the code name Perihelion, is not an American at all. We think that he is a Pakistani Muslim and a very dangerous person.”

“That is impossible. He said he was an American. He spoke of the earlier work. He hated the jihadists. He was working against them.”

“It’s called a ‘false flag,’ Mr. Sabah. A man from one country pretends to be from another, to get cooperation. Israelis pretend to be Americans. Americans pretend to be Canadians. It’s part of the game.”

“I don’t like it. It’s lying.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Sabah. But lying
is
the game.”

The Lebanese-Belgian shook his head. It was too much to absorb in one evening.

“How could George know all the details of your programs, if he wasn’t one of you?”

“We don’t know. That’s one reason we need your help.”

“I’m not sure. I need to think. After all this…” He gestured to the room and, by extension, to the events of the last several hours.

“We don’t have time for you to think about it, Mr. Sabah. This man is responsible for the deaths of some brave Americans, and he will kill more people if we do not find him. We can’t wait.”

Sabah was shaking his head.

“I do not know.
C’est trop.
This is dangerous for me, too.”

“Let me show you something,” said Marx. She removed a piece of paper from a folder and handed it to him. It was a copy of the list of four bank account routing numbers that Malik had given her in Islamabad.

Sabah studied the paper. This was a code that he understood well. He handed it back.

“I know what this is. I obtained this wire-transfer information for George. This was his most recent request. Is this a trick?”

“No. Not a trick. We know you were helping him, but we want to believe that you made a mistake. I want to show you something else.”

She passed a second sheet to him. This was the transcript of the call between Sabah and his contact, shorn of its Pakistani ISI tailings. He looked at this one for a long while, and then put his head in his hands.

“
Haram
,” he muttered, using the Arabic word that in Lebanon connotes wrongdoing, for Christians and Muslims alike.

Marx spoke now with a harder tone in her voice.

“I hope you can see now why it is so important that you help us, Mr. Sabah. These documents connect you with a man who is a terrorist. If you do not work with us, we will have to assume that you are working against us. You would not be happy with that situation, I’m certain.”

Sabah sighed. He knew that he was caught, more tightly now than before when he had been hooded.

“So I do not have a choice,” he said.

“No. Not really. There is only one good answer for you.”

“I will do what I can,” he said glumly. “What is it that you want?”

“We want you to help us catch him.”

“You mean that I am the cheese, and he is the mouse?”

“Yes, that’s the idea,” said Marx. “But this man is no mouse. He is somewhere between a rat and a snake. He has a motive, and he wants to kill, and right now you are the only chance we’ve got. I hope that makes you feel better, knowing that you are important.”

“It does not make me feel better,” said Sabah. “Nothing will make me feel better until I am rid of all of you.”

They took a break. Everyone was tired. Sabah’s contact records and datebook were in his laptop computer at home. They needed the computer, and every digit of email and phone information it contained about the man who had posed as George. Sophie Marx would take Sabah to his apartment, where they could retrieve the computer files.