How to Break a Terrorist (13 page)

MID-APRIL
2006

S
OMETIMES, SOMETHING HAPPENS
that injects in me a little hope for the future of Iraq. We receive a valuable tip from a concerned citizen who alerts us to the presence of an Al Qaida operative at a downtown Baghdad Internet café. A raid team charges out of the compound. In minutes, they’ve nailed a scrawny, curly-haired college kid and they bring him back to the compound.

Iraq needs more concerned citizens.

When our Al Qaida college kid reaches the compound, I assign Marcia to the interrogation. She’s an army NCO, Hispanic in origin but could easily pass as an Arab with her long dark hair and big soulful eyes. Arabs would call them “the eyes of Fatima,” the daughter of the Prophet, which is one of the most flattering compliments a woman can receive in the Islamic world. In the booth, Marcia puts them to good use. They give her an earnest, trustworthy quality, allowing her to build a unique rapport with her detainees.

When I took over from David as senior interrogator, he warned me that Marcia was a high-maintenance interrogator, meaning she needed watching. She was accused once of bringing a detainee into an interrogation booth for no reason other than wanting to smoke in the air conditioning, since the only time interrogators could smoke inside the building and not outside in the desert heat was if their detainee smoked with them in the booth. I didn’t know if the story was true, but with me, everyone started with a clean slate. What I know is that while she’s not an old-schooler, she does conduct her interrogations by the book. She uses the approaches well, but they only take her so far.

Over the course of four days, I watch her work on Ismail, the Al Qaida computer geek. She develops an excellent rapport with him, partly because they’re both young but also because they’re both smokers and Marcia never fails to give him a cigarette. By day two, they’re sitting in the booth, smoking and talking like old friends.

But such good rapport can become a burden if not used correctly. Marcia finds it difficult to ratchet up the intensity of the interrogation. She can’t escalate the tension without destroying the rapport they’ve built. She starts going in circles.

The answer to the problem is guilt. Guilt-trip the newfound friend into giving up information. Marcia eventually intuits this and pushes hard on this front. Time after time, I see her from the Hollywood room telling Ismail, “I’m your friend, right? I give you cigarettes. I make sure you’re well treated, right? Now it’s your turn to help me.”

Ismail’s patented response: “I wish I could, but I don’t know anything.”

He was caught with DVDs of insurgent point-of-view attacks on American forces, beheading videos, and Al Qaida propaganda films. The Sergeant Schultz defense doesn’t cut it.

One morning, I arrive in the ’gator pit to find Marcia waiting for me. “What do you think of today’s Randyism?” she asks me. I look over at the whiteboard and laugh as I read aloud, “Little boys check under their beds at night for the bogeyman. The bogeyman checks under his bed for Randy.”

“What do you think I can do better with Ismail? I’ve tried everything I can think of, Love of Family, Love of Comrades, We Know All…I even suggested we could pay him off. Nothing’s working.”

We walk over to my table as I think about this. “Well, he’s pretty young. He’s scared. Maybe we should try a Boss Introduction.”

Marcia lights up at that. “That’s what I was thinking.”

If you’ve ever bought a car at a dealership, then you’ve probably been a victim of the boss introduction. When the negotiation stalls, the salesman calls in his boss, a person with social prestige, to pressure you. This method works even better against Arabs since their culture is strongly hierarchical.

After our 11
A.M.
meeting, Marcia goes into one of the interrogation booths and meets with Ismail while I watch from the Hollywood room.

“Ismail, I like you,” she begins. Ismail speaks perfect English.

“I like you, too. You have been very kind to me.”

Ismail sits hunched up within himself. His hands shake
constantly. He has perpetual jitters. Even in their most relaxed moments together, Ismail is never far from the realization that he’s bound for Abu Ghraib.

Marcia’s eyes of Fatima radiate compassion. They don’t calm him down, but they do rivet his attention. She smiles warmly, “Look, you’re a good person who got trapped. I understand that. That’s why I’ve asked my boss to come meet you today.”

“Your boss?” Ismail asks hesitantly.

“Yes. My boss is the type of person you want on your side. He can influence people with just a few phone calls. He can speak to the judges on your behalf.”

Ismail’s eyes go wide. Marcia’s offered him a lifeline, and he suddenly sees hope.

“Really? He can help me?”

“Yes. He doesn’t talk to many detainees, I’ll tell you that right now. And I’m taking a risk by asking him to talk to you.”

“Risk?”

“Yes. I’m taking a chance on you Ismail. If it doesn’t work out, it’ll damage my reputation here. I like my job, and I want to keep it.”

“I won’t do anything that gets you in trouble,” he promises.

“Thank you. Just know that this is a very rare chance. I’m counting on you, okay? Don’t make me look bad.”

“No, no, don’t worry.”

“I trust you, Ismail. I really do.”

That’s my cue. I leave the Hollywood room and hustle down to the interrogation booth. As I walk, I turn myself into the hard-nosed, aloof boss who is skeptical but willing
to give Ismail a chance. I must exude authority. This is the metamorphosis of the old techniques—blending them with our knowledge of Arab culture, similar to Tom and Steve’s routine a few weeks before. I stop at a garbage can in the hallway and grab a piece of scrap paper for my clipboard.

Marcia lets me in and introduces me.

I sit down next to the table in the room with the clipboard in my lap, its front hidden from Ismail. Marcia sits on the other side of the table and Ismail sits alone in front of us. I look down at my clipboard and produce a pen.

“Okay, I need to ask you some questions,” I say.

Ismail looks thoroughly intimidated. He manages a nod.

I want to keep him on edge without overdoing it. He already sees me as his lifeline.

“Ismail, before the war began, you were going to college, is that right?”

“Yes. I studied computers at Baghdad University.”

I pretend to check something off on my clipboard. He watches me intently. I continue, “Why did you leave school?”

“My father. Well, he died. I had to move back in with my mother and take care of her. But I could not find much work.”

I pretend to check another box. Then I look up over my clipboard at him. “How did your father die?”

Ismail looks mortified. “It is too painful to discuss.”

This is a perfect chance to build rapport.

“I understand.”

He looks relieved. That was a major sore point with Marcia. She couldn’t find out what happened to his father either. I wonder if he was killed by a Shia militia.

“How did you end up working for Al Qaida?”

Ismail gets defensive. “I…I did not know who I was working for. I just went to the mosque one day looking for work. This man offered me a job. I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. I just edited the videos he gave me, adding graphics and verses from the Koran.”

“What did you do with them when you were finished?”

“I posted them on Web sites I had built for him. Then I gave the finished videos back to him on DVDs.”

“What was on these DVDs?”

Ismail is suddenly still. Over the past four days he’s been a bundle of jitters, so the transformation is stark. His hands stop shaking. He quits fidgeting. He looks me in the eyes. “Horrible things. But I did not have anything to do with them.”

Horrible things—he’s right about that. Beheadings. Executions. I wonder if he edited the final versions of the two videos Bobby showed me.

“What happened to these DVDs after you gave them to your boss at the mosque?”

Ismail shrugs. “I’m not sure. Maybe they were copied and sold on the street.”

Al Qaida propaganda.

I don’t say anything to this. Instead, I frown and check a box. The frown elicits a sharp intake of breath. I glance up. Ismail’s riveted.

I set the clipboard upside down on the table. Then I pick up my chair and move it right in front of his. I sit down, our knees almost touching. I pretend to study him. The silence unnerves him. His hands start to shake again. He vibrates with nervousness. He knows the penalty for working with Al Qaida. I am his way to cheat the hangman’s noose.

The silence continues. I look him over again. He’s sitting ramrod straight, shoulders back, head erect. All week long he’s been so scrunched up inside himself that I haven’t been able to get a sense of how tall he is. Now I can see he’s about five seven, with maybe an extra two inches of mop-top curly black hair thrown in for good measure.

I bring my hand up to my chin and start scratching at my patchwork beard, as if lost in thought.

“All right, Ismail,” I say slowly, “I’m going to trust you.”

His hands stop shaking. Relief washes over him. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

“I don’t do this often, but Marcia told me you are a special case. I believe her, and I believe you. You needed a job, Al Qaida gave you one. You were just looking for a way to take care of your mother and get back to school someday.”

“Yes. Yes, sir, that’s true.”

“I’m going to offer you something. It is a one-time offer. You can take it or not, but if not, it will never be offered again.”

“Yes, sir.”

He is extremely deferential to me. With Marcia, he’s much more friendly and informal. He’s right where we need him to be.

“I can make some phone calls. I can make sure that when you leave this place you will be taken care of and your case will be viewed very favorably.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I will do this on one condition.”

“Condition, sir? What condition?” He asks uncertainly.

“You have to tell me who you worked for.”

Ismail goes rigid. Not a muscle twitches. He doesn’t even blink and he seems to be holding his breath.

I hold his gaze. Seconds pass.

This is the crossroads of his life. He must give up his boss to save his own life. Will he do it? It is the ultimate test. What sort of man are you, Ismail? Will you save yourself?

He glances over at Marcia, whose eyes and smile project encouragement. He looks back at me.

“I worked for a guy in the mosque. I didn’t know his name,” he finally answers. His words lack conviction. This is his last line of defense, but I can tell he’s got no stomach left for the consequences.

I decide to give him one final chance. Let this last stand crumble.

“Ismail,” I ratchet up the authority in my voice. I’m polite and professional, but now I try to convey the finality of what is about to happen. “No. That’s not good enough. If you want this deal, you have to tell me his name. This is your last chance.”

Ismail turns to Marcia and searches for solace in her eyes of Fatima. He finds in them trust and security.

He takes a long breath and releases it. Then he whispers, “Abu Raja.”

The leader of the Group of Five.

My face remains a mask. I give nothing away, but inside I’m reeling from this revelation and its implications.

“Abu Raja? That’s who you worked for? He’s the man you met at the mosque?”

“Yes.”

“So what does Abu Raja do?”

Ismail answers, “I don’t know exactly. But he’s the one who brought me the videos. I edited them and gave them back.”

“What does he look like?”

“Bald on top. Mustache. He wears glasses. He’s a doctor.”

That’s our man. And now we know he’s one of Al Qaida’s public affairs officers.

I won’t reveal the fact that we already have him in custody. In fact, I’ll lead Ismail to believe we’re going to go looking for him.

“Where can we find Abu Raja?”

“At the mosque in Baghdad. The largest one in the Mansur neighborhood.”

“Thank you, Ismail. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of when you leave here. For now, we’ll bring you an extra meal and pillow.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’m going to go make some phone calls. I need you to continue to work with Marcia. I’ll be watching.”

I stand and turn for the door.

Before he leaves our base, I’ll be sure there’s a note in his file explaining just how helpful he’s been. The judges will look favorably at that, and if he’s lucky, he’ll get only five years instead of twenty or worse. Nonetheless, five years in a Shia-run prison will be hell on a kid like Ismail. Perhaps he’ll see his mother again. If he survives, he’ll be able to go back to school. He’s got a difficult future ahead of him, but at least he’ll have a chance.

YUSUFIYAH, LATE APRIL
2006

T
HE HELICOPTERS ALIGHT.
Barely have their skids hit dirt when the Special Forces leap from their side-mounted benches. They maneuver for the target: a small apartment building sitting in the center of a field of goats. In the moonlight, they dodge the animals and reach the side of the building. The apartment they want is on the second floor.

Stairwells can be death traps in close-quarters combat. The team scales the stairs swiftly and flows out onto the second floor. In the darkness they find the door they want. Now they’ve come to the most dangerous moment: breaching. The men are at their most vulnerable upon first entry. They don’t know what is waiting for them. A booby trap? An IED that will bring the entire building down upon them? Jihadists armed with AKs and a resolve to die in place? Or, as has
happened before, will they find an innocent family cowering before their onslaught? Whatever they find, they will have mere milliseconds to decide whether to pull their triggers. The wrong decision will get people killed—both soldiers and civilians.

They breach the door. The first team pours inside. They find an average Iraqi living room, but this one has three sleeping mats thrown on the floor. Motion in the back of the room. A man in a vest materializes from the gloom. Two more shapes move behind him.

The man in the vest detonates himself. The explosion rocks the building. Suddenly, two more blasts follow, one on top of the other. There were three suicide bombers. The first one caused the other two vests to blow. The inside of the living room is sprayed with human mist. The walls and ceiling are streaked with gore. Somehow, none of the soldiers suffers wounds.

They move forward swiftly. In the mess they find a woman, barely alive. Nearby, her unarmed husband lies dead. The woman will be treated, but first the rest of the apartment must be cleared. The team stacks up on a doorway leading off the hallway. At a signal, they storm into the room, weapons ready. Nothing. Another team clears a bathroom. One room left.

Inside it, they find a surprise.