How to Break a Terrorist (16 page)

R
EMOVE YOUR MASK,
please.”

Abu Haydar pulls the black mask off his face. He regards me quizzically. I’m a break in the routine—he’s never seen me before. Aside from the guards, the only people he’s seen for twenty days are Lenny and Mary.

I practiced my tone and opening lines while waiting for him to arrive in the booth, but I didn’t have time to think any farther ahead.

“Hello,” I say with measured cordiality, “I am Dr. Matthew.”

“Hello, Dr. Matthew. I am pleased to meet you.” His lips are tightly drawn. He sets his jaw. I can tell by his eyes that he’s already sizing me up. The game is on.

“No,” I say, letting a little excitement creep into my voice, “the pleasure is all mine. I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time.”

His eyes widen a little.

“Oh really?”

I need to build rapport.

“I’ve read quite a bit about you,” I say, “I feel like I already know you.”

His eyes crawl across my face, studying everything, missing nothing.

“The truth is that I am fascinated by your education in Islam.”

Nobody’s discussed religion with him. At the schoolhouse, our instructors drilled into us that a discussion like this should be avoided at all costs. They said that to counter some of the attempts at denigrating Islam that took place at Gitmo. Religion has become a taboo subject.

But I’ve never felt that way. If we can’t discuss religion with the enemy, then where are we? Everything starts with dialogue.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Abu Haydar replies, his words tightly wound. He speaks English with an upper-class British accent.

I know he’s heard me. I’m not sitting knee-to-knee with him, but I am close. I spoke clearly. My comment threw him off his game just a bit.

“How long have you studied Islam?” I ask.

He stares at me, expressionless. Neither of us blink. His eyes are black, almost opaque. I cannot glean anything from them. I can see he’s searching my eyes for clues as well.

“I have studied Islam for fourteen years.” He lingers over each word, ensuring its perfect pronunciation.

“I have studied Islam myself, but not for the same length of time as you,” I marvel.

I stroke his ego and wait to see how he responds.

“You have studied Islam?” he sounds respectful, but there’s an undercurrent of disbelief in his tone.

“Yes, I have.”

He doesn’t react. Instead, he studies me again. He folds his hands into his lap.

I have a card to play here. I pick up my copy of the Koran from the desk and I hold it out to him. He looks at it, and I see his poker face slip a little. He is surprised.

“Is this yours?” he asks.

“Yes. Before I came to Iraq, I was stationed in Saudi Arabia. A friend of mine, a colonel in the Saudi Air Force, gave this Koran to me as a gift.”

He opens it, and a card falls out. He retrieves it from the concrete floor and looks it over.

“I’ve highlighted verses and copied them down. Ones that have themes that intrigue me or that I don’t quite understand yet.”

“This is the Wahhabi version.”

“Yes, it is. The colonel is a friend to this day.”

He looks over the Koran. “Is he? Did you like living there?”

I nod and smile, “Oh yes. I loved the hospitality the Saudis are so famous for. I loved to sit and talk with my Saudi friends…”

I’m about to go on, but he cuts me off, “What did you talk about with your Saudi friends?”

He’s trying to gain the initiative over me. Who is interrogating who here?

I’ll go with it for now. Let him get more comfortable. Give up control for something else in return.

“Politics, mainly.”

“Oh, so you are interested in politics?”

“I have a doctorate in international relations and culture. It is my passion.”

One hand comes up to his close-cropped beard. He strokes his chin slowly, seemingly lost in thought.

“I have a passion for politics, too.” He says that as if he’s revealing something. Actually, I think he’s baiting me.

“Well, we have something in common.”

I can’t tell what he thinks of that answer.

He shifts gears but retains the initiative, “Have you studied Iraqi history?”

“Yes, I have, actually.”

More beard-stroking. Several seconds pass. I wait, letting him keep the initiative for now.

“What is your favorite period of Iraqi history?”

“The twelfth century,” I answer honestly. “I am particularly fascinated by Salahadin and his campaigns during the Crusades.”

If my instructors at the schoolhouse could see me now, they’d shit bricks. The Crusades?

But he’s intrigued. We discuss the Crusades and Salahadin’s campaign in Egypt, where through force of personality he was able to rally a Shia-dominated army against a Christian invasion.

Time passes. I try not to get anxious. I don’t know how long we’ve been at it, but it has to be at least an hour.

Abu Haydar smiles and remarks, “There is no doubt that Salahadin was a wise, intelligent leader.”

“And merciful,” I add.

“That is true.”

I decide to grab the initiative.

“Muhammad, peace be upon Him, says it is good to have mercy on your enemies. I believe that.”

That got his attention. “Yes. That is part of leadership. It is a balance between mercy and strength.”

Was that a signal to me? Before I can respond, he adds, “It is good to show mercy.”

That was a signal.

I am about to regain the initiative and ask him a question, but he beats me to the punch. “Excuse me please,” he says with almost sterile politeness, “I am sorry. Are you Muslim?”

“No, I’m not. I am a Christian, but I’ve had an interest in Islam for many years.”

The dopplegänger is taking form.

“How did you develop that interest?”

I tell him a true story.

“Back when I was in college, I was always studying religion. I wandered into a bookstore. On one aisle, I saw a copy of the Koran. I picked it up and was looking at it when a black Muslim-American approached me and asked me if I had read the words of Allah. I had not, so I bought the copy of the Koran and read it. I later studied Muhummad, peace be upon Him, and the history of Islam.”

“That is very interesting…”

“Problem is, I don’t think I am strong enough to be a Muslim.”

He stops stroking his beard momentarily.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, to be a true Muslim, you must surrender to Allah’s will, correct?”

“That is correct.”

“I don’t think I could live up to that.”

He laughs at that. “Well, no one is perfect.”

I laugh as well. “Yes, we all make mistakes.”

His eyes narrow at that reference. His gaze goes straight to my eyes again. He watches with renewed intensity. “Yes, we all make mistakes. But mercy demands forgiveness, right?”

“Exactly.”

Does he want to cut a deal? This smells like bait to me. I pretend not to notice and change the subject.

“What sort of sports do you like?”

I see a hint of disappointment and surprise on his face and decide that he liked the direction we were going and make a mental note to revisit it when the time is ripe.

“I like ultimate fighting and mixed martial arts.”

“I enjoy both as well.”

“Do you practice martial arts?” he asks.

“Yes, I studied tae kwon do for many years.”

It’s a lie.

He returns to stroking his chin, “I have practiced martial arts for twenty years.”

I nod and look impressed. “Martial arts are a thinking man’s sport.”

Will he notice that I’m stroking his ego?

“That is right.” He looks pleased.

“Do you know jujitsu?” I ask.

“No. I have a black belt in karate.”

I’m alone, sitting in front of an insurgent who has practiced hand-to-hand combat for twenty years.

There’s a knock on the door. “Excuse me,” I say coolly as I stand to crack it open. The truth is, my heart jumps into
my throat. Have I just been caught? At the very least Randy will be furious with me. He’ll probably see that I’m sent home.

I grasp the doorknob and turn until I hear the latch disengage.

I pull back just enough so I can peer into the hallway. Steve’s standing there, a Coke in hand. Relief floods through me.

I slide into the hallway. As I do, Steve sees who is in the booth with me. His mouth opens and his eyes go wide. He gives me a
what the hell are you doing
look.

“What do you need?” I ask.

“I’d like to offer some incentives to Abu Raja next time we talk. I need your approval.”

“Sure, no problem.”

He jerks his head slightly and eyeballs the door at the same time. I shake my head.
You don’t want to know.

“Hey, what time is it?” I ask, just as he’s ready to head back to the ’gator pit.

He glances at his watch. “Twenty hundred hours.”

I only have three more hours.

I
STEP BACK INTO
the booth and sit down. Abu Haydar has been patiently waiting, his hands folded in his lap.

I pick up right where we left off, as if we have all the time in the world. “I am amazed at your study of martial arts. It must take discipline to devote twenty years to it.”

“It requires more passion than discipline,” he says in a passionless voice. He’s making sure I can’t get a read on him from his vocal inflections.

“What sort of ultimate fighting do you watch?”

“I watch the PRIDE Fighting Championships—in Japan. And UFC in the United States.”

“I’ve been a fan of the Ultimate Fighting Championship for several years.”

He nods once, then says, “I have watched since 1993.”

He one-ups me in everything.

“That was back in the day. They allowed everything back then, didn’t they?”

“Yes.”

We continue for another hour, talking about our favorite fighters, including the legendary Royce Gracie. It turns out he is a favorite UFC fighter for both of us. Nevertheless, Abu Haydar upstages me at every turn, demonstrating superior knowledge of the sport. Every time I mention a fact or tell the story of a fight, he digs out something more arcane that only a die-hard fan would know.

I don’t have to create a doppelgänger; we have many things in common.

The conversation wanders to travel. He’s been to Jordan, but nowhere else. When he asks me if I’ve traveled much, I tell him truthfully, “Yes. I’ve been to about fifty countries—South America, Asia, Europe, and Africa.”

“Which is your favorite country?” I suspect he figures I’ll say Iraq to stroke his ego some more. Instead, I surprise him with my answer, “I loved Costa Rica. I hiked in the mountains there, and they’re beautiful.”

We’re running out of time, I have to start something soon.

“I understand you have a family—a wife and three children right?”

“Yes, I do,” he says with his typical flat expression. A wave of the hand, and he dismisses this line of conversation. “Tell me, what is it about Royce Gracie you like?”

A quick Love of Family approach isn’t going to work here. That’s obvious. I decide to roll with it. “I admire his intelligence. He defeats his opponents with his brain.”

“Yes, that is true. I also respect him for that. How do you think he will fare in his next bout?”

Gracie’s set to fight Matt Hughes at the end of the month.
“I expect he will do well. Matt Hughes has a mixed record. He’s the underdog, the up-and-comer, but Gracie’s a legend.”

“I agree. I think Gracie will win.”

I’m running out of patience. We have less than two hours before he is transferred.

I’ve got a good read on him now after four hours in the booth with him. He has an unusual personality type, one that I’ve only heard about at our special investigations academy but have never encountered in the real world. He’s a grand egoist, absorbed in a delusion of grandeur.

I wonder how I can exploit this.

I change the subject again, wresting control of the conversation away from him.

“I know now that you have studied Islam for fourteen years. What else have you studied?”

A long pause. I sense we’re on the verge of something, and he’s internally conflicted. His calculating, cautious side urges silence. The grand egoist in him prevails.

“I have studied logic, the art of persuasion, and argument diversion.”

No wonder he ate Mary’s lunch and rode Lenny in circles.

“Interesting. By the way,” I try to change the subject again, “Did you serve in the military?”

He measures his words like a cook measuring flour.

“Well, Iraq fought a lengthy war with Iran. Many Iraqis served in the miltiary.”

“Ah!” I interject. “I see you just used your argument diversion skills on me so you didn’t have to answer the question.”

He laughs gamely and even blushes a little. “Yes, you caught me.”

Now, the doppelgänger takes form again.

“I studied logic and persuasion while getting my doctoral.”

He looks impressed. He gets my unstated point.

“I was never in the military.”

This is the first time he’s reacted submissively. He has respect for me. What is my next move? Outside the booth, I hear footsteps in the hallway. Are the other ’gators winding down before the end of the shift and the 2300 meeting? I don’t know how much time is left.

He interrupts my train of thought and seizes the initiative again.

“You know, Dr. Matthew, you are not like the others.”

He’s running an approach on me. I react with caution.

“What do you mean?”

He strokes his beard again and says nothing. He’s sizing up my response. Finally, he says, “You understand Muslim history.”

“Thank you. I like history.”

“No. No. No,” his expressionless mask slips away again. Now he looks agitated.

“You know more than those others. They are ignorant.”

The schoolhouse taught us never to damage the credibility of another interrogator to a detainee. You never know when that ’gator might have to sit down with your detainee again.

I decide to avoid his gambit entirely.

“Abu Haydar, I have a question for you.”

The poker face returns. “Certainly.” Again with the pre
cisely pronounced words. He’s ever so careful about everything. Where was he going with that approach? Maybe I can find out my own way.

“I’ve always wondered something about Islam,” I say.

“Please, go ahead with your question.”

“Do you Islamic scholars ever discuss the word of Allah as passed to Muhammad, praise be upon Him? The thing is, His followers wrote the Koran. Is it possible they made mistakes in the translation?”

He leans back in his chair and steeples his hands. He looks very pleased.

“Dr. Matthew, this is such a good question. I used to work in the Ministry of Religion, did you know that?”

“Yes.”

“I was in charge of the Arabic language programs.”

“Yes.”

“But the study of Islam has always been my overriding passion.”

“I wondered if you had thought about this question before,” I say, eyes wide with respect.

“It is possible that some of the followers of the Prophet Muhammad, praise be upon Him, made mistakes when they wrote the Koran. But those mistakes would have been Allah’s will, so they are still the words of Allah.”

“Allah is all-knowing.”

“Precisely!” he explains, with one index finger pointed upward for emphasis.

After a short pause, he continues, “Dr. Matthew, I am really enjoying this conversation.”

“Thank you. I have enjoyed it, too.”

“I have never been comfortable with the others.”

He’s running that approach again. I want to cut it off.

“I have another question for you.”

“By all means, what is it?”

My brain is racing. The clock is ticking. I need to pull together everything I’ve learned here in Iraq. It’s time to warm up the dice.

“In 2003, the United States takes out Saddam. But after Saddam falls, we make many serious errors.”

He looks interested. He’s stroking his beard again, studying me.

“We disband the army, we hand the government over to the Shia. We let the Shia militias run free and intertwine themselves with the police and the New Iraqi Army—we’ve made a lot of mistakes.”

He nods his head. His eyes are fastened on mine. He’s hanging on every word, wondering where I’m going.

“What I don’t get is this. Can’t the Sunni see what’s happening here? Can’t the Sunni see the war that is coming?”

“War that is coming?” he asks.

“Yes. Look at what we’ve done since 9/11. We invaded Afghanistan. We get bases in Central Asia. We invaded Iraq. Turkey is our ally and we have bases there as well. We’ve surrounded Iran.”

“Iran,” he says and stops stroking his beard.

“Can’t the Sunni see that we’ve positioned ourselves around Iran? That the real war will soon be with the Iranians? This is just me talking here, but can’t the Sunni see this coming?”

He starts stroking his beard again. His studies me intently, looking for any sign, any clue that will tell him my ulterior motive. I give him nothing.

“Yes,” he says slowly, “we have discussed this.”

“In such a war, the Shia of Iraq would not be on our side.”

He agrees. “They most likely would not.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

His hand freezes in mid–beard stroke. He grows absolutely still. Everything in the room, even time, seems to stop.

He stares at me. I stare back.

His eyes no longer study me. They are fixed on mine. He doesn’t blink.

He opens his mouth slightly and says in a low voice, “I was wondering why you had come to visit with me.”

“I’m going to be straight with you because we don’t have much time.”

It is an honest admission. Outside in the hallway, I can hear more footsteps heading back to the ’gator pit. The last thing we do before the meeting is send somebody around to empty the trash cans. There’s a metal one in the hallway right outside the booth’s door. It makes a racket when it’s emptied, and it has always annoyed me. It will be my alarm clock now.

He lets me continue. I blow on the dice.

“You’ve probably guessed that you are scheduled to be transferred to Abu Ghraib tonight.”

“Mmm.” His response is completely neutral.

“I’m in a position to negotiate with you.”

He says nothing. He’s scanning my face for any tell, any clue that I am lying.

“I’m on a special mission.”

He strokes his beard more slowly now.

“So, what is this mission?”

“I have been tasked with finding Sunni leaders willing to fight with us against the Shia and Iran. We must rebuild our relationship with Sunnis if we are to win this coming war.”

He weighs my words.

“Go on.”

I’m shaking the dice.

“We need strong, capable leaders whom we can trust and work with closely as equal allies. I think you are one. But before I can offer this to you, I have got to be able to trust you.”

He stops stroking his beard again. He remains as still as a corpse. The silence is unnerving. I hear the garbage can clang in the hallway. I’m out of time. This is it. I let the dice fly across the table.

“Abu Haydar, excuse me for speaking so directly. You’re supposed to leave in just a few minutes, and I cannot negotiate with you at Abu Ghraib. That would be too dangerous for you. I need to know right now if you are willing to negotiate with me.”

The garbage can clangs once more, filling the silence. More footsteps.

His eyes are locked on mine again.

I refuse to speak first.

“You are different. But are you sure you can help me?” he asks.

“I can pick up the phone and call Washington at any time. I can make this happen. But right now, right here, I have to know I can trust you. So, here is what I need for me to trust
you. I am thinking of a name. You know who I am thinking of. I know you know. But I need to hear you say his name. Then I know I can trust you.”

I have no name in mind. I made it up.

We sit in silence. Every second is agony. I force myself to keep my face a mask. I’m filled with confidence and I feel I can do no wrong. I know I’ve run a good approach. But there’s no telling if he’ll take it. The odds are he won’t.

Thirty seconds pass. The footsteps in the hallway recede. Everyone’s in the conference room. The meeting is about to start.

The silence endures. He scrutinizes me, but I don’t move. Every muscle, every nerve must sell this long shot. One twitch, and he’ll run away.

A minute has passed. I swear he hasn’t blinked.

Suddenly, he opens his mouth.

“Abu…Ayyub…al…Masri.”

I’m speechless. Al Masri is Zarqawi’s number two man. He just told me he knows Al Qaida’s operations officer for all of Iraq. He’s no mere cameraman.

I smile warmly. I’ve got to keep selling this. “Thank you my friend. That is the name. Now I know I can trust you.”

“How do you know al Masri?”

“We have met four times.”

“Where?”

“Farmhouses in Yusufiyah. Al Masri never meets at the same place twice.”

I want to continue this, but I don’t have that luxury.

“Abu Haydar, I need to leave now for a meeting. I also
need to make some phone calls on your behalf and I absolutely must stop your transfer to Abu Ghraib.”

He looks thoroughly relieved, “Yes. Yes. Please do that.” This is the first indication I’ve seen in any of his interrogations that he hasn’t wanted to go there.

I get up to leave. “Wait, Dr. Matthew, one more thing. I only want to talk with you.”

That’s not going to fly. There’s no way I can function as senior interrogator and focus on Abu Haydar. Besides, there’s no way Randy will officially agree to have me in here.

“I’ll see what I can do. But you may have to talk to some of the others again. Not everyone works for me.”

He looks puzzled and disappointed with my reply. Still, I have given him hope, and hope is the most powerful weapon.

He rises and extends his hand. I am taken off guard. Iraqis don’t shake hands. I take his hand in mine. He clasps my wrist with his other hand. “Thank you Dr. Matthew. Thank you.”

It is a handshake worthy of two newfound allies.