How to Break a Terrorist (3 page)

Now I’m laughing. Cliff blushes bright pink.

Bobby continues, “The SF guys didn’t know what to do at first. You know how the girl’s family would have reacted, right?”

“Premarital sex?” I say. “They would have been shamed.”

Bobby nods in agreement. “They would’ve beaten the
shit out of her. Fucking Iraqis. God I hate this fucking place”

“Anyway,” he says, “the SF guys let them go. The boy’s probably scarred for life.”

“And the girl, too,” Cliff notes.

“So at the same time the other members of the team hit the house and they find Abu Ali inside. He’d been blessing suicide bombers there, but by the time the SF guys arrived, the bombers were long gone.”

“Into Baghdad,” says Cliff.

“Yeah. Probably blowing up some Shia marketplace.”

“Zaydan ends up ratting out his best friend and not even knowing it. That’s the best part.”

“Does Abu Ali know that?” I ask.

“No. And we won’t tell him either. But they know they’re both locked up here,” says Bobby.

“It isn’t a good idea to reveal that information,” Cliff tells me. “Once we’re done with them here, they go to Abu Ghraib. If they know somebody sold them out, they’ll try to kill them. Besides, they interrogate them over there, too. Information like that could cause a detainee to stop cooperating.”

“I understand,” I say.

I think back to the lesson at the schoolhouse: never make a promise you can’t keep because you’ll burn your bridge.

“Okay, let’s go grab some chow; then we’ll get started. Whaddya say?” Bobby asks.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Besides, I’m dying for a Coke. I need my caffeine fix.”

I shudder to think what Bobby’s going to be like with a
boatload of caffeine in him. I make a mental note to keep him away from energy drinks.

We say good-bye to Cliff and head off for the mess hall. As we go, Bobby slaps me on the back and starts in again, “So there I was in my King Air 300…”

It’s going to be a good day.

T
HE JOVIALITY AND
comradeship of the morning long forgotten, I sit beside Bobby in front of a human skeleton. It is Abu Ali, a Sunni. His orange prison jumpsuit sags off him like he’s a bony coat hangar. Bitterness seems to leech out of him. This man is my introduction to Al Qaida in Iraq.

Our interpreter, Hadir, stands in the far left corner behind Abu Ali. The ’terp looks reluctant to speak.

Bobby glances at Hadir, though we’re generally supposed to maintain eye contact with our detainee. “What did he say?”

Hadir frowns. Then, in a perfect mimic of Abu Ali’s tone, says, “You came to my country, to Iraq. You Americans ruined our lives and now you want to help me?”

Bobby nods. “Yes, Abu Ali, we can help you. Don’t you want to see your family again? Your wife and daughter? Help us to help you.”

He does not reply. Bobby decides to press on. “I know we’ve been through this before. Who did you work for?”

No answer. He stares unblinking at us.

Bobby had warned me beforehand that Abu Ali is a hard case. He hasn’t given anything up, despite numerous interrogations. At the same time, he’s not afraid to be direct, especially when it comes to his hatred for Americans.

Bobby turns to me and says, “See, I’m telling you this guy is something else. Go ahead, ask him what he’d do if you gave him a knife.”

My attention returns to our detainee. “Abu Ali, what would you do if I gave you a knife?”

“I would slit your throat and watch you die.”

His gaze on me is even. He doesn’t blink. His hands never move from his lap, where they are folded. He is a statue.

“See,” says Bobby to me, “this fucking guy is unbelievable.”

I ask the next question. “You mean just because I’m an American, you would kill me now if you could? Even though I mean you no harm?”

“I would kill you. You Americans robbed us of everything.”

Abu Ali says something else. Hadir translates again, “You created this hell that we are living in.”

Bobby ignores the comment and changes the subject. “Abu Ali, why don’t you tell my new team member Matthew why you joined Al Qaida?”

“Certainly,” he responds, as I marvel at his self-possession.

He’d be an amazing poker player if he could just hide his eyes. His eyes are his “tell”—they give him away.

“It goes back to when you Americans first invaded Iraq,” he begins. His lips barely move. He doesn’t even seem to be breathing.

“At that time, I lived in southern Baghdad. I was an imam at our local mosque. Everyone lived happily together—Sunni and Shia, we lived in peace.”

I doubt the Shia would see it that way, given what Saddam did to them for years, but I make no comment, nor do I give anything away with body language. Interrogating is acting. You hide yourself away and present whatever façade encourages the detainee to volunteer information.

He continues in a monotone, “Sunni and Shia lived as neighbors. My mother is Shia. She converted to Sunni when she married my father. There was harmony.”

“What happened after the invasion?” I ask.

“You Americans removed Saddam. We lost our protection. America doesn’t care about Sunnis. You let the Shia militias kill my people.”

I’ve studied the Badr Corps. They’re Ayatollah Ali al Sistani’s Shia street army. They’re ruthless and well organized.

“Which Shia militias?” I ask.

As Hadir translates this, I notice he’s started to get fidgety. We’ve only been in the booth for about twenty minutes. Bobby set the air conditioner on the lowest setting, and it is chilly in here, but that doesn’t explain Hadir’s behavior.

“The Badr Corps. The Madhi Army. There are many militias.”

“What do they want?”

“They want power. Dominance. They want to kill us and drive us from our homes.”

And they want revenge for the hundreds of thousands of
Shia who died under Saddam’s rule. The tyrant’s gone and now, right under our nose, the Shia are avenging those deaths.

“I owned a clothing store,” Abu Ali continues, “One day, I came to the store and found a note. The note read ‘Pack your things and leave. You have forty-eight hours or you will die.’ The bottom of the page had the symbol of the Badr Corps.”

He lets that sink in. We stare at each other. Bobby doesn’t blink. Neither do I.

“What did you do?” I ask.

“I would have stayed. This was my home. My shop. I loved my mosque. But the next morning I learned the Badr Corps had killed a friend of mine, who was also an imam. He lived in the neighborhood next to mine.”

His face hardens. His thin lips tighten into a frown. “I did what I had to do to save my family. We packed up and moved back to my hometown in Yusufiyah. I lost my shop. My livelihood. The Badr Corps took it over.”

It is hard not to feel sympathy for this man, despite his malignance. He is clearly traumatized. But we have to figure out how to use his trauma to our advantage.

“I returned to the mosque of my childhood. It was there I met fellow Sunni willing to stand and fight for our people.”

“Did you volunteer to help?” I ask.

“No. They recruited me.”

I lean forward in my chair. I try to act earnest and sympathetic. “Abu Ali, why Al Qaida? Why not one of the Sunni groups like Ansar al Sunna or the 1920 Revolution Brigades?”

Hadir translates this, then cracks a Coke. As he takes a long pull from it, he watches Abu Ali’s response.

“There were not any left in Yusufiyah. You Americans wiped them out. We had no access to money or weapons. Without Al Qaida, we had nothing.”

That’s the first time I’ve heard this. Is he lying?

“I did not know it was Al Qaida at first.”

This is bullshit. He had to have suspected. I need to call him on this.

“Come on, Abu Ali, you must have known.”

“Not at first,” he insists. Bobby watches him, stone-faced. He doesn’t believe this either.

“But when I found out, it was not important. We needed weapons, they gave them to us.”

“So you believe in Al Qaida’s goals?”

Abu Ali stares hard at me, sizing me up. He says nothing for a moment.

“No, I am Iraqi. I only want back my home.”

Bobby cuts in, “Tell Matthew what you did for Al Qaida.”

The moment is broken. Abu Ali’s eyes flick to Bobby. Then he shifts in his chair and looks over at Hadir.

“Don’t fucking look at him. I asked you the question. Show some respect,” Bobby orders. He sounds firm—perhaps overly so. He’s the youngest one in the room and seems to be compensating a little. He wants Abu Ali to know who’s in control. Abu Ali turns his head and engages Bobby. They say nothing. The stare-down goes on for thirty seconds.

Abu Ali cracks first. “I recruited,” he says at last.

“How?” I ask. His attention shifts to me.

“I preached at the mosque. I urged my fellow Sunni to join the struggle. If we did not fight, you Americans would let the Shia destroy us.”

“Tell Matthew what else you did,” Bobby prompts.

Abu Ali nods and continues in that preternaturally calm voice.

“Later, I was told to go to a house out in the countryside. I did not know why. When I arrived, I found I was to bless some of our men before they left for their missions.”

“What sort of missions?” I ask.

For just an instant, a flicker of doubt appears on his face. His voice drops to almost a whisper, “Martyrs.”

“You were blessing suicide bombers?”

“Yes.” He shifts in his chair, the first movement I’ve seen from him.

He’s uncomfortable with this. I want to find out why.

“You blessed them?”

Again a pause. He averts his eyes. I notice he’s staring at the floor now.

I look over at Bobby. I want to ask more questions, but Bobby is the lead ’gator here, and I also want to make sure I’m not stepping on his turf. His expression is open.
Have at it.

“Did you believe in this tactic?”

Abu Ali replies slowly, “Not…at…first.”

“What made you change your mind?”

He mumbles a response. Hadir asks him to repeat his answer.

His eyes go icy. He pulls into himself, drawing his shoulders forward and folding his arms across his boyish frame.
His dark skin is taught across his bones. Whatever is inside this man is eating him alive.

He repeats his answer, but his voice is so soft that Hadir still can’t understand.

Abu Ali clenches his teeth and bares a caustic smile. His third answer is clipped, firm, and loud.

Hadir mimics it perfectly. “You Americans left us no choice. Suicide bombers are our only defense.”

Bobby jumps in. “What do you mean?”

“Our only hope is to cause civil war. Then other Sunnis will come here to help us.”

His chin rises. Defiantly he adds, “I did what I had to do.”

I decide to let him play victim.

“The martyrs killed
Shia
,” he says. “The Shia deserved to die.” He sounds like he’s talking about exterminating bugs.

“And you are proud of that?” I ask.

“Yes. I am proud.”

I detect a slight waver in his voice. Is he posturing? Or is he bitter that he has allowed himself to become an imam who supported mass murder?

“This is what you want for the future? This is the Iraq you want to give to your daughter?”

“It is the only way we will survive.” His voice takes on an edge.

I’ll remember this sore spot for later.

Bobby begins to flick his pen against his notebook. It beats a steady rhythm into the silence. I get up and turn down the AC.

Bobby takes the lead.

“You know Abu Ali, we’re talking with Zaydan.”

Abu Ali stares placidly at Bobby.

“If Zaydan talks first, we will make a deal with him. He will go home to his family. You will stand trial at Abu Ghraib. Do you know what the punishment is for those caught aiding suicide bombers?”

“Death.”

His voice is flat and devoid of emotion. Yet his body language screams hate.

“That does not have to be your fate, Abu Ali,” Bobby answers. “If you tell us what we want to know, we will go to the judges on your behalf. There’s one American, one Shia, and one Sunni. We can put in a good word for you, maybe change the American’s mind and the Sunni’s mind.”

Abu Ali looks unmoved.

“We can convince them you are an asset who is helping us. Maybe you do a little time at Abu Ghraib, hang out with your friends, and go home,” Bobby says earnestly. His face is open and honest. Given what he said about hating Iraqis and Iraq earlier, I’m surprised at his expression. I find myself almost believing him.

“Help us save you,” he almost beseeches.

Abu Ali sits in silence. He face gives up nothing.

“Zaydan is already talking,” Bobby says, ratcheting up the pressure.

Back in the world of criminal investigation, we call this approach the Prisoner’s Dilemma. It’s designed to get one guy to turn on another. Tell both the first to talk gets the deal while the other gets the noose, and generally it isn’t long before somebody talks.

“I don’t care,” Abu Ali replies.

“We want to help you, Abu Ali, but we can’t do it unless you give us something,” Bobby says.

No answer. Abu Ali continues to stare malevolently at us.

“Okay, I think we’re done here,” Bobby says. He turns to me.

“Actually, I’ve got another question,” I say.

“Go for it.”

“Abu Ali, I do not understand your name. Doesn’t it mean ‘father of Ali?’ Yet you only have a daughter.”

“It is just a nickname,” he replies dismissively.

“Isn’t Ali a Shia name?”

“I already told you that my mother was Shia.”

“Do you have a nephew that you’ve taken in?” I ask. That would explain why he’s nicknamed Father of Ali.

“No. It is just my wife and daughter in my house.”

“How did you get this nickname?”

“It is just a nickname. My mother gave it to me.”

His voice is butter smooth, but I think I see a trace of nervousness on his face. If I did, it didn’t last long.

I nod to Bobby, indicating I’m finished.

“Okay, we’re done for today,” Bobby says. “Go back to your cell and think about it, Abu Ali. Think about your family. Put on your mask.”

As Abu Ali puts the black mask over his face, Hadir exits to retrieve a guard. A minute later a guard enters and handcuffs Abu Ali’s hands behind his back. Hadir bolts from the booth as the guard leads our detainee back to his cell.

After Hadir leaves, I ask, “What’s up with our ’terp?”

Bobby points at the door.

“Hadir? Oh, he’s a chain-smoker. Leave him in a booth
too long, and he starts to get the shakes. That’s why he guzzles those Cokes.”

“He didn’t hide how much he hates Abu Ali.”

“Yeah. Used to be Pershmerga—Kurdish Special Forces. He’s got plenty of reason to hate Sunnis.”

Bobby slides his notebook under one arm and changes the subject. “Well, what did you think of Abu Ali?”

“That’s one cool player. He seems resolved to his fate.”

“He doesn’t give a damn about anything,” Bobby agrees.

That’s the worst type of detainee to have. You can’t motivate a guy who doesn’t care what’s going to happen to him. How can you offer a carrot to a horse with no appetite?

Even though I’ve worked with Bobby for only a few hours, I can sense we’ve got a good rhythm going.

“We gotta do something to make this guy care,” I suggest. “We need to get him emotional. Push his buttons. Even if we just piss him off, we need to move him.”

“Yeah, but we need to find the right button to push. I’ve been looking for a week and haven’t found a goddamn thing. I just get nothing from the guy, you know?
Inshallah
, and all that bullshit.” Inshallah means “God willing,” or “God’s will.”

Fate plays a major role in Arab societies. In Iraq, I have no doubt many will be like Abu Ali, willing to leave their fate in God’s hands. The only way to buck this trend is to go back to the things people hold closest. Family. Pride. Respect. Those things can provoke core emotions and drive up the stakes.

I start thinking out loud. “Draw emotion out of him. That’s the way to find what motivates him.”