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.”
“Bitterness motivates him.”
“No, I don’t think so. He’s bitter over what has become of his life, but I don’t think it motivates him.”
“It drove him to join Al Qaida.”
“Not really,” I say, “I think he did that out of self-preservation more than anything else.”
“Yeah, probably. Listen, I don’t know how to get to this fucking guy. I’ve run just about every approach in the damn book, and he hasn’t cracked. He’ll admit to anyone what he’s done, but he offers up nothing else.”
“How much more time do we have with him?” I ask.
“Not much. At any moment Randy could kick him into Abu Ghraib. I’m not even sure we’ll get another shot at him.
“What do we do?”
Bobby thinks it over for a moment. “Let’s go pay a visit to Abu Ali’s childhood pal. See if we can’t work them off each other.”
“Do you think they’d rat each other out? They’re lifelong friends.”
“Probably not, but what do we have to lose?”
Three
THE JOVIAL IMAM
AN HOUR LATER, Bobby and I sit down with Zaydan, Abu Ali’s childhood friend. I’m surprised at the difference between the two men. Where Abu Ali is skeletal, Zaydan is rotund. Where Abu Ali is bitter, Zaydan is cheerful. Zaydan exudes no hatred, no poisonous resentment or dislike for Americans. In fact, he doesn’t act as if his life hangs in the balance at all.
After Bobby introduces me, he asks Zaydan to explain his role in Al Qaida. Zaydan doesn’t hesitate. He freely admits he worked to recruit Sunni fighters through the mosques he preached at in Yusufiyah and southern Baghdad. He joined Al Qaida for the same reasons Abu Ali did. Zarqawi’s organization offered him safety from the roving Shia death squads.
In the absence of leadership or structure, the Shia unleashed a wave of vengeance against the Sunnis. They murdered and plundered their way through the Sunni neighborhoods in Baghdad and Najaf, polarizing the population. Our inability to stop the violence drove thousands into Al Qaida’s ranks. Zaydan is just one of those, though more important than most since he is an imam.
After Zaydan tells me his story, Bobby goes to work on him. “Zaydan,” he begins, “We’ve been talking for many days now and I’m trying to help you out, but the clock is ticking here. We don’t have much time left before you will be transferred to Abu Ghraib. That’s no threat, it’s just a fact. From here, you’ll be sent there to stand trial before three judges.”
Zaydan nods dismissively, “I know.”
“Okay, then. Help us help you. If you just tell us who your boss is, we can go to the judges and work on your behalf.”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t.”
Bobby glances at me. Though we’ve only worked together for a few hours, I can already sense what he’s thinking. Can’t help because you’re loyal to Al Qaida, Zaydan? Or are you afraid of them?
Bobby tests the waters. “We can protect your family.”
Zaydan laughs. His bulging belly rolls with the effort. We stare at him, unsure of what sparked this outburst. Finally, he says, “You Americans already protect my family.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My family lives in a compound in Yusufiyah. It is a new settlement, walled and guarded. There is a checkpoint at the entrance. U.S. Marines guard it.”
Bobby and I are floored. An elite community in the most actively hostile area outside Anbar Province protects the family of one of Al Qaida’s top recruiters in Baghdad.
Bobby makes no effort to hide his surprise. “Really?”
Zaydan laughs and replies, “Sure. Abu Ali’s family is there as well!”
I ask, “You mean his wife and daughter?”
Zaydan frowns, “No, his wife, son, and daughter.”
Interrogations are like poker games. This sort of revelation is obviously significant. We just can’t let our detainee know he’s inadvertently given us something of value. I cover up.
“I forgot he had a son.”
“Why do you think I call him Abu Ali?” Zaydan chides us. “Abu means ‘father of’ and his son is named Ali.”
The interrogation rolls on, with Bobby working the Love of Family approach. He can’t get Zaydan to budge. On the fly, he makes a decision not to use the Prisoner’s Dilemma yet on Zaydan. I’ll have to ask him about that later.
Two hours later, we’ve gone in circles. We’re no closer to breaking him or finding his motivation. With our troops already protecting his family’s home, we have no observable leverage. Bobby ends the interrogation with a resigned, “You know, Zaydan, we’re at a standstill. I like you. You’re a good guy, and I want to help you. But I don’t know what else I can do.”
“I am sorry, my friend. I cannot tell you who I work for or where to find him.”
And that’s that. We end the interrogation. As we walk back to the ’gator pit, I ask Bobby, “So do you think he doesn’t trust us? Or is he afraid for his family?”
“Not sure. Maybe both. You can’t believe what Al Qaida does to members who turn on them. I’ll show you the videos sometime.”
“I can imagine,” I say.
“No. You can’t. Believe me. They use power drills on the squealer’s arms and legs. Sometimes on their heads, too.”
We reach the pit and report to Cliff what little we learned. He seems disappointed.
“Randy’s not going to keep him or Abu Ali around much longer,” he tells us. “They’re not giving us anything, and the SF guys bring in new catches every night. Sooner or later, they’re going to Abu Ghraib.”
Bobby agrees, “Probably sooner.”
“Hey, why did you decide not to run a Prisoner’s Dilemma on Zaydan?” I ask.
“Eh, maybe next time,” Bobby says, but I can tell there’s something else on his mind.
“Okay, what next?” I ask.
Bobby ponders this. “Well, why do you think Abu Ali hid the fact that he has a son?”
“Weakness?”
“Maybe. Let’s ask him first thing tomorrow.”
Four
LOVE OF FAMILY
THE NEXT MORNING, we start with Abu Ali. A guard brings him into our interrogation booth. He glares at u
s as soon as his mask is removed. Hadir, our ’terp, stands to one side, already jonesing for a cigarette. He tries to drown his nicotine habit with liberal slurps of Coke.
Bobby gets right to the point. “You have a son.”
Abu Ali doesn’t even blink.
“Why didn’t you tell us you had a son?”
His lips curl into a semismile. It suits him about as much as a pink collar on a junkyard dog.
“You caught me,” he says.
He sits back, the semismile stamped on his face. He was hiding a weakness.
“How old is your son?”
The semismile evaporates. He growls something that Hadir translates as “Eleven years old. He is just a boy.”
This gives me an idea. I glance at Bobby who tips his head in another go for it gesture.
“Your family is staying near Zaydan’s family, right?”
Abu Ali shuffles in his chair at this question and doesn’t answer.
“They are under the protection of our marines. Why did you move them there?”
“Because it is safe.”
“So isn’t there a way for us to work together to make Iraq safer?” I say.
Abu Ali answers me with silence and a stare.
“Abu Ali, think about your son. What will happen to him in this Iraq?”
Implacable silence greets my question, but Abu Ali’s blue eyes burn with hatred.
We’ve hit a nerve. I press it harder.
“Look at all the violence going on. Your neighborhood has been ruined. Your life has been ruined. Is that what you want for your son?”
He mumbles something then sinks within himself again. He looks even smaller, even more emaciated than the day before. Hadir shrugs and says, “I did not understand what he said.”
“Look, Abu Ali, we Americans made plenty of mistakes. We didn’t realize that the Shia would form militias and take over neighborhoods. We didn’t know they would assassinate Sunni.”
His cold blue eyes spear me. At least I have his attention.
“But that doesn’t mean we can’t work together to fix it now.”
Silence.
“Who else will help you? The Syrians? The Saudis? The Jordanians? None of them are going to come to your rescue.”
More silence.
“We want to help.”
“You caused this!” he barks.
Good, we’ve got him emotional. Now I’ll hit him hard with a Love of Family approach.
“But you’ve got nobody else. Who else is going to help? Al Qaida?”
“Al Qaida cannot help us.”
The words seem to slip out inadvertently, and Abu Ali looks surprised at the admission.
“What about the suicide bombings? Is that what you want for Iraq? More violence?”
He stammers. Hadir watches him intently. Abu Ali finally bursts out, “It was the only weapon we had.” Hadir mirrors his vocal inflections. He sounds desperate to believe his own words.
Bobby jumps in and goes for the throat, “Abu Ali, do you want your son to grow up in this cycle of violence? Do you want him living in an Iraq where he can’t even go to the market without getting blown up?”
Defiance flares in him. “I would be happy to see my son die. He would die a martyr.”
Bobby and I both sense he doesn’t mean it.
“Come on, Abu Ali. Your only son. You would give your only son to this insanity?”
“Yes.”
“Bullshit!” Bobby yells. “That’s fucking bullshit and you know it!”
Bobby is throwing his last ace. And then Abu Ali’s head drops ever so slightly.
“I just want things back the way they were,” he says in a gentle voice.
We’ve gotten to him.
“Your son doesn’t have to die,” Bobby says.
Abu Ali rubs at the water in his eyes. He struggles to maintain his composure and squirms in his chair.
“I want my son to live in peace.”
“Well he won’t. He’ll live in this violence, in this hell, unless you do something about it.”
A long silence fills the interrogation booth. We wait him out. The tears slow.
“There are two farmhouses south of Abu Ghraib in Yusufiyah.”
Bobby leaps at this. “What are they used for?”
“They rotate through them. They are used for blessing suicide bombers.”
“Will you show us where they are?”
Abu Ali looks at Bobby and then looks at me and then back at Bobby.
“Yes.”
Bobby reaches for the laptop on the table between us. It’s loaded with digital satellite maps of Iraq that display on the flat-screen TV on the wall. Bobby scrolls through the maps and follows the route from Baghdad onto the main western highway toward Abu Ghraib. Abu Ali recognizes a bridge on the highway and slowly he works his way south on the map and locates the first farmhouse. It’s a lone house in the middle of farmland. The closest neighbor is a mile away. When we mark the location, Abu Ali says, “This place is sometimes used for meetings. Suicide bombers gather there as well.”
“Meetings between whom?” Bobby asks.
“I don’t know.”
He’s not willing to go that far yet.
Then Abu Ali asks Bobby to return the map to Abu Ghraib. From there he tracks north on a minor road and then down a dirt path to another farmhouse.
“That one,” Abu Ali says.
“What’s this one used for?” Bobby asks.
“Sometimes they store weapons there.”
“Thank you Abu Ali. You have helped us and you have helped Iraq.”
“I did not do it for you. I did it for my son.”
“My friend,” Bobby says, “tell us who you and Zaydan work for and we can help you get back to your son. You can get back to taking care of your family.”
That’s too much. Abu Ali shakes his head. His eyes go icy again.
“I cannot tell you that.”
“Cannot or will not?” Bobby demands.
“I want my son to live.”
“We can protect you and your family.”
Silence. This time, it endures. We get nothing further from Abu Ali. He shuts down, resolved to his fate, and we send him back to his cell.
Afterwards, we huddle with Cliff back at the ’gator pit. We show the analyst the locations Abu Ali gave us of the safe houses. We mention that he said meetings are sometimes held at the first and weapons at the second. “This one farmhouse looks familiar,” Cliff says. He turns to Bobby.
“Isn’t this the one that you got from a previous detainee? The police source?”
“I think so,” Bobby replies.
“Well, this is good stuff, gentlemen,” Cliff says with a smile. “We’ll pass this on to the SF guys and see what they can find.”
We return to our desks and get back to work. In a few hours, we’re scheduled to interrogate Zaydan one final time before he goes to Abu Ghraib. If we don’t get anything from him today, he’ll take his secrets to the grave.
Five
THE CONVENIENT CAR BOMB
THE NEXT MORNING I reach the ’gator pit by 10:30. I find doc Brady standing next to his desk looking thoroughly outraged over Bobby’s latest prank. A piece-of-shit rinky-dink metal chair is handcuffed to his desk. This is Iraq and we work in a prison. Everyone carries handcuff keys. I try not to laugh at his predicament as I slide into my own chair, which is so beat up that nobody wants to monkey with it.
The whiteboard has a new Randyism for the day. It reads, “Jesus can walk on water, but Randy can swim through land.”
The Doc goes off on his morning chair search. As soon as he disappears, Bobby arrives, Cliff in tow. Somebody flicks on the flat-screen TV at the front of the ’gator pit and tunes it to CNN and a breaking report from Yusufiyah. A suicide car bomber just tried to run a checkpoint manned by marines. He detonated in a crowd, killing and wounding dozens of Iraqi civilians. There are no reports of marine deaths.
“Fucking Muj,”
Bobby says through clenched teeth.
Muj, like mooch with a “j,” is short for mujahideen. Muj are the new Charlies.
“Foreign fighter, probably,” Cliff notes.
“How do you know that?” I ask.
“Since I’ve been here, I have yet to see a single Iraqi suicide bomber. They’re all foreign volunteers. Young males, eighteen to twenty-five. Some of the unsuccessful ones come through here.”
As we’re glued to CNN, Randy walks up to us. “Bobby, last day on Zaydan. He talks or walks.”
“Fuckin’ A.”
“Shit-hot job yesterday. We put surveillance assets on those safe houses Abu Ali gave us. The first one was empty, but they’ll keep checking it from time to time. The second one the guys are planning to hit tonight.”
The live report from Yusufiyah grabs our attention again. Randy stands next to us, arms crossed, staring at the carnage. After a minute he swears lightly, then checks his watch. “Time for the morning meeting,” he calls to us as he heads to the conference room.
We’re assigned to interrogate Zaydan today, along with a couple of detainees low on the totem pole. Bobby decides the time is right for a Prisoner’s Dilemma approach.
Early that afternoon, we sit down with Zaydan. Hadir serves as our ’terp again. Bobby starts by saying how much we want to help him, then, weaving in the Prisoner’s Dilemma, mentions that Abu Ali has given us information.
Zaydan is cordial, but he doesn’t buy it. He offers us nothing.
During a lull, Bobby tries to lighten the mood. “Hey Matthew,” he asks, “Zaydan told me a great joke. Wanna hear it?”
Hadir translates this. Our big detainee chuckles.
“Sure,” I play along.
Bobby turns to Zaydan and says, “Correct me if I get this wrong, okay?”
“Certainly.”
Bobby starts in. “Did ya hear the one about the al Dulaimi who went to the soccer game?”
An al Dulaimi is a member of the largest tribe in Iraq. There are at least six million al Dulaimis in country.
“No, haven’t heard that one.”
Bobby grins and looks over at Zaydan, who wears a Cheshire-cat smile.
How to Break a Terrorist Page 4