500 Days: Secrets and Lies in the Terror Wars

by Kurt Eichenwald

  As his lieutenants headed out, the general counsel, Alberto Mora, rose from the head seat at the conference table and made his way toward his desk. Once the others were gone, David Brant, head of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, approached him.

  “You have a minute?” Brant asked.

  “What’s up?”

  “I just need to talk to you about something.”

  There were some troubling reports coming in from NCIS investigators stationed at Guantanamo, Brant said, choosing his words with care.

  “My people are saying that detainees are being abused down there,” he said. “They haven’t participated in it, and they haven’t witnessed it, but it’s apparently been inflicted by members of JTF-170,” the intelligence task force.

  Has to be some sort of rogue operation, Mora thought.

  Brant hesitated, but only for a flicker of a second. “Now, the rumor is that this has been approved at the highest levels,” he said. “We think it’s repugnant. We think it’s unlawful and contrary to American values.”

  Even if ordered to take part in these interrogations, Brant said, his people would refuse. In fact, some of them wanted out of Guantanamo completely, to escape being associated with a place that stank of barbarity.

  “Do you want to know more?” Brant asked.

  Mora realized that Brant was giving him a way out. He appreciated the consideration—he could say no and hide behind a wall of ignorance if these rumors blew up into scandal. He doubted that would happen. Whatever misdeeds might be uncovered would surely be the work of a few misguided mavericks. But even if he was wrong, even if there was something more ominous going on, Mora wouldn’t be walking away from this.

  “I have to know more,” he said. “If this is true, it’s very serious.”

  They agreed to get together the next day with other military officials who should know about any suspicious goings-on.

  • • •

  The meeting was held the following afternoon in Mora’s office. He invited four other Pentagon officials to hear Brant out, including Dr. Michael Gelles, the chief psychologist for NCIS.

  Brant repeated what he had told Mora. He explained that, even though the navy investigators had not witnessed abusive interrogations, there was ample reason to believe their suspicions were true.

  Gelles agreed. “Guantanamo isn’t a big place, it’s like a small village,” he said. “The different commands go to the same restaurants, work out of the same jails. They engage in the same recreational activities.”

  As a result, Gelles said, the criminal investigators mingled constantly with their counterparts in the intelligence unit who pulled no punches about what they were doing in the interrogation rooms.

  “The guards and interrogators with JTF-170 are under immense pressure to produce results,” he said. “And they’ve begun using some abusive techniques with the detainees.”

  A document was passed around that read like a transcript of a recent interrogation. It described treatment, like forcing detainees to wear women’s underwear, making them hold their bodies in painful positions, and subjecting them to coercive psychological techniques.

  Mora read each page with rising disgust, but not outrage. Yes, the tactics described were aggressive and crude, but in his view they didn’t rise to the level of inhumane treatment—much less torture.

  Then Gelles dashed that thought. “This isn’t the full scope of what’s going on,” he said. “What we’re hearing is there are harsh interrogations taking place where there is physical abuse.”

  And, he said, there was no dissuading the military interrogators from venturing down this destructive path. “They believe that these techniques aren’t just useful, but necessary to get the information they want.”

  Regardless, Gelles said, the interrogators were transgressing the boundaries they had been taught to respect and committing acts that would constitute crimes if used against an American citizen.

  Whoever approved these techniques had no familiarity with the voluminous literature on interrogation, and that meant they had no understanding of the dangers they had unleashed, Gelles said.

  Unlike seasoned law enforcement agents—who by trial and by training had mastered the art of interrogation—these loose cannons were young and inexperienced, with no grasp of how free-for-all tactics could corrupt them.

  “Once the initial barrier against the use of force has been breached, it can set in motion a concept known as ‘force drift,’ ” Gelles said. “It’s an observed phenomenon among interrogators who rely on force.”

  Permission to mistreat prisoners conveys the unmistakable message that cruelty works, leading raw interrogators to the seemingly logical conclusion that if mild abuse doesn’t get results, inflicting a higher amount of pain might.

  “So the level of force used against an uncooperative witness tends to escalate such that, if left unchecked, it could reach levels that include torture,” he said. “I’m very concerned that the conditions at Guantanamo are such that it’s ripe for this phenomenon to emerge.”

  There was an uncomfortable urgency in Gelles’s words that struck Mora hard. The doctor had an unrivaled reputation for his expertise in the practical application of psychology to law enforcement and national defense—he had helped the military question spies and had worked closely with the CIA. He was exactly the kind of specialist who should have been consulted on how to put together an effective interrogation program. But based on what he was saying, it appeared that the military had decided to wing it without soliciting the advice of its own experts. If Gelles was this worried, then Mora was, too.

  Brant leaned forward, looking uneasy. “These guys don’t know what they’re doing,” he said. “But like I said, this is not some rogue operation. And this isn’t just something that’s been sanctioned by the local command. It’s reportedly been authorized at a high level in Washington.”

  “Do we know who authorized it?” Mora asked.

  “No,” Brant replied. “We don’t have any more information on that.”

  They would soon enough, though. “A lot of people are talking about it at Guantanamo,” he said, “And it’s bound to get out.”

  Mora glanced around the table, taking in the dismay that knotted the faces of his colleagues as they waited to hear his verdict.

  “This could be unlawful and certainly contrary to our national values, even if this is limited to one individual,” he said. “That in itself would be a scandal and would create legal exposure to everybody associated with this.”

  Mora praised Brant, Gelles, and their associates at NCIS for taking the initiative to divulge the irregularities they had uncovered and he promised to take swift action. The meeting ended in an almost mournful silence.

  Rear Admiral Michael Lohr stayed behind. Alone with Mora, he shook his head and grimaced. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” he said.

  • • •

  2:00 A.M. Eight hours later. Second straight hour of interrogation.

  The sergeants questioning al-Qahtani had hung a photograph of a scantily clad model around his neck to demean and offend him. They knew that, like most fundamentalist Muslims, he considered viewing women dressed in provocative clothing to be an affront to God.

  Al-Qahtani was unbolted from the floor and led by the guards to the bathroom. As he walked out, he ripped off the photo. The guards grabbed him and pushed him to the floor.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” one of the guards asked.

  “What do you think you are going to do to me?” al-Qahtani replied.

  • • •

  3:00 A.M.

  The interrogators brought out a binder filled with pictures of women in bikinis. One of them started holding up the images to al-Qahtani.

  “Tell me, are the women the same or different?” he asked.

  Averting his eyes, al-Qahtani began to struggle. One of the interrogators sprinkled water on his head.

  “Are they the same or different?”
the interrogator asked again.

  Al-Qahtani looked at the photos. “They are different,” he said.

  • • •

  7:40 A.M.

  The United States had captured a lot of al-Qaeda members and seized their computers, one of the interrogators said.

  “Do you think we’re going to find your address on the confiscated computers?” he asked.

  “You might find it. It’s possible.”

  An admission. A big one.

  “Why is it possible that we would find your address on an al-Qaeda computer?”

  Al-Qahtani’s eyes narrowed. “You must have misunderstood me,” he said. “My address won’t be found on any of the al-Qaeda computers.”

  • • •

  Later that day at the Pentagon, Mora telephoned his counterpart in the army, Steven Morello. Maybe, he thought, the other general counsels might be able to work with him to find out what was going on. He and Morello had a friendly professional relationship, so he seemed the best person to contact first.

  “Steve, I hear some rumors that there are some interrogation abuses going on at Guantanamo,” Mora said.

  “Yeah, I know something about that,” Morello replied. “Come on down.”

  Mora’s jaw dropped. Morello already knew. The gossip from Cuba was apparently making the rounds fast at the Pentagon. He hurried to Morello’s office two floors below.

  Morello and his deputy, Tom Taylor, were waiting for him in a small conference room. The three took seats at a small round table, and Morello pushed a document over to Mora.

  “We tried to stop this,” he said.

  It was the memo from Jim Haynes that had been signed by Rumsfeld two weeks before, along with the attachments that described the methods that Guantanamo interrogators wanted to use.

  Mora scanned it quickly and, at first, saw nothing disturbing. Sensory deprivation techniques—well, sure, put the guy in a dark room for ten minutes. He had the same reaction to every proposal: nothing wrong with doing this, nothing wrong with doing that.

  Then a thought struck him. Where are the limits?

  How long could a man be forced to stand in a darkened, soundless room? Ten minutes? Ten hours? Ten days? The memo gave no hint of the answer. That crucial decision—which could transform a clever tactic into brutal cruelty—had apparently been left to the interrogators. And the memo provided no guidance. Mora’s gaze shifted to the bottom of the Haynes memo and fastened on Rumsfeld’s scrawl.

  However, I stand for 8–10 hours a day. Why is standing limited to 4 hours?

  It had to be a joke, Mora thought—but a stupid one to make. In a courtroom, those blithe words could be interpreted in a very ugly way. Rumsfeld should never have written them, but once he did, Haynes should never have circulated the memo.

  Mora sighed. Poor Jim Haynes, he thought.

  He knew that the Pentagon general counsel had been at the office around the clock almost every day for more than a year. His workload was just impossible. Haynes had told him that he had once fallen asleep at the wheel while driving home and jerked back awake in the nick of time.

  Jim just missed it, Mora thought. His mind numbed by overwork, he had no doubt skimmed over the notation without registering its significance. And besides—what was Haynes doing writing this memo, anyway? Did somebody who wanted to keep his name off this dump it on him? Sure, it had legal ramifications, but the document was primarily a policy statement. It should have been written by Feith or Wolfowitz, not foisted on the general counsel.

  Mora thumbed through a few more pages. A whole bevy of lawyers at various rankings had approved the techniques. Of course Haynes was going to defer to their collective judgment. It wasn’t his job to conduct legal research.

  Haynes’s people had failed him, Mora thought, hadn’t looked out for him the way they should have. They themselves probably didn’t grasp the implications of what they were rubber-stamping, or recognize how this could blow up in everybody’s face, all the way to Rumsfeld, if the public ever got wind of it.

  Mora decided that he needed to read the document through again more thoroughly. There was no reason to force Morello to sit there and watch him do it. He asked to borrow the memo; sure, came the reply.

  “Thanks for sharing this with me,” Mora said as he headed for the door.

  • • •

  This is absurd!

  Mora was at his desk, reading a legal analysis about detainee treatment that had been sent from Guantanamo months before. This mess—written by the chief legal advisor at the detention center, Diane Beaver—was what the Pentagon had relied upon in approving harsh interrogation tactics? Everything in it—its logic, its interpretations, its conclusions—was not only wrong, it was laughably wrong. In a mere six and a half pages, Beaver had single-handedly managed to annul hundreds of years of jurisprudence.

  International law didn’t apply. Mora could only shake his head at the colossal misjudgment. The president makes a declaration and suddenly the United States is not bound by the rules that govern every nation? What if the Russians tried that ploy, or the Chinese? How could Beaver not realize that this wild idea would drain the meaning out of every international human rights agreement ever written?

  The rest of the memo only amplified the folly of her reasoning. Cruel, inhuman, and degrading treatment could be inflicted on Guantanamo detainees with near impunity because, at that location, no law prohibited it. No court would have jurisdiction to rule on an abuse allegation, so no interrogator could be subject to criminal prosecution. The military had created a toxic stew at Guantanamo: poorly trained interrogators, told to mistreat prisoners, with no limitations and no exposure to the law. This was a disaster. The potential damage to America’s security, prestige, and moral bearing was incalculable.

  This travesty of justice rested on a precarious tower of policy misjudgments and legal error. He had to knock it down, Mora decided. Rumsfeld’s decision had to be rescinded—and quickly.

  • • •

  December 20, 11:15 A.M. Into the eleventh straight hour.

  “Bark!” an interrogator yelled.

  Al-Qahtani struggled, closing his eyes tightly.

  “Dogs are held in higher esteem than you. At least they know right from wrong, and know that they have to protect innocent people from bad people. So do some dog tricks. Then we can elevate you to the social status of a dog.”

  No reply. Al-Qahtani grew more agitated.

  “Bark!” the interrogator repeated.

  Then “stay.” Then “come.”

  “You’re going to learn your dog tricks,” the interrogator said.

  • • •

  1:00 P.M.

  “Bark!”

  “Stop this! I should be treated like a man!”

  “You have to be trained,” the interrogator replied. “You have to learn who to defend and who to attack.”

  An assortment of pictures was brought out. One of the interrogators showed the first set to al-Qahtani. They were photographs of victims from 9/11.

  “Bark happy for these people.”

  Al-Qahtani said nothing.

  “Bark happy for these people!”

  A pause. Then al-Qahtani barked.

  The interrogator brought out a second set of photographs. They were images of the 9/11 hijackers.

  “Growl at these people!”

  Al-Qahtani growled.

  The dog tricks ended, and it was on to the next indignity. One of the interrogators wrapped a towel around al-Qahtani’s head.

  “Time for your dance lessons,” an interrogator said.

  The two sergeants began to instruct al-Qahtani on how to dance. He reared back and tried to kick one of the guards. No one reacted, and the dance lessons resumed.

  • • •

  Later that day, Mora was waiting outside Haynes’s office when his boss appeared in the doorway.

  “Alberto, how are you?” he said. “Come on in.”

  Mora had told Haynes only that they n
eeded to discuss some issues involving Guantanamo, and he knew he would get a respectful hearing. That was Haynes’s way with subordinates. Though he rarely spoke or even reacted in one-on-one meetings, he always listened closely to their concerns and never cut them off until they had said their piece. Mora felt certain that his distress would be resolved before he left Haynes’s office.

  The two men took seats at a small conference table. Haynes leaned forward, a finger on his temple.

  “What’s this about?” he asked.

  Mora told him of the reports from NCIS agents about abuse at Guantanamo. He mentioned that he had obtained a copy of the Rumsfeld memo and attached documents.

  “I’m surprised that the secretary was allowed to sign it,” he said. “I know this wasn’t the intent, but in my view, some of these authorized techniques could rise to the level of torture.”

  “They don’t,” Haynes replied.

  “Jim, think this through a little more carefully,” Mora said.

  Consider how vague the language is, he said. What, for example, did “deprivation of light and auditory stimuli” mean?

  “Could a detainee be locked in a completely dark cell? And for how long? A month? Longer?”

  Then there was the approval for using the detainees’ fears against them. “What precisely did that permit?” Mora asked. “Could a detainee be held in a coffin? Could phobias be applied until madness set in?”

  Nor could the rightness or wrongness of an interrogation tactic be measured in isolation from the others, Mora said. Ordeal could be piled on ordeal, strung together in a sensory overload that would cross the line into torture.

  “There are no limitations spelled out,” he said. “There is no boundary for prohibited treatment. And that boundary has to be at the point where cruel and unusual punishment or treatment begins.”