How to Break a Terrorist

by Matthew Alexander

  “Oh, so you don’t have grandkids?”

  Abu Gamal matter-of-factly replies, “No. No.”

  There’s no stutter now. Is he hiding something. Or being honest for a change?

  “Where does your son live?”

  “He lives with my wife and me.”

  “And your son’s wife lives with you as well?”

  “Yes.”

  I decide to press the issue, “And they don’t have any kids?”

  Abu Gamal again replies matter-of-factly. “No. His wife can’t have any.” He’s dropped his obsequious act. For a second, I see a flicker of disappointment on his face.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, my friend.”

  “She was not my first choice.”

  I act concerned.

  “I’m sorry. Whose choice was she?”

  The doppelgänger I’ll use with him is starting to take shape.

  “My wife’s choice,” Abu Gamal says with a scowl. Clearly this is an old wound.

  “You didn’t approve of her as a wife for your son?”

  Abu Gamal’s lips purse and he expels a burst of air through them. Then he shakes his head, “No. I told my wife that he should marry someone else. But my wife insisted on this…this woman, and my son married her.”

  He pauses and looks at the floor. Now he’s unable to hide his disappointment. This is a sad subject for him, and he is clearly shamed by it. “She was not a good choice. I cannot have a grandson through her,” he adds.

  Hadir translates this and imitates Abu Gamal’s expression. Hadir confirms my suspicion that Abu Gamal’s disappointment stems from the fact that he won’t have a male heir to carry on his family’s bloodline. It will end with his son.

  I’ll tuck this away for future use. In the meantime, we need to move on.

  I take a sympathetic tone, “I’m very sorry to hear that, Abu Gamal, but perhaps your son will find a second wife someday and give you an heir.”

  He doesn’t sound enthused by this. “Inshallah”—God willing—is all he can muster.

  “It must be hard to support your family now that your electronics shop is not doing well. How are you getting by?”

  Abu Gamal brightens. He leans forward again. The obsequious act returns.

  “Well, ac–actually th–that’s why I–I was at the house. I–I was paid to drive Abu Raja.”

  Now we’re back to square one. That stutter’s back. It’s his tell. He’s running his approach on me again.

  “Whose car did you drive?”

  “Mine.”

  “You’ve never driven for any of the four other men before?”

  “No. N–never.”

  “When you were in the car, did any of them talk to each other?”

  Abu Gamal shakes his head. “No. N–nobody talked.”

  This is bullshit. He’s not volunteering anything. An innocent man would provide more information. A guilty man says little so that he doesn’t trip over his own lies. He’s involved, all right. But how deeply?

  “That’s strange. How far is it from your house in Baghdad to the farmhouse?”

  “Uh…two hours.”

  “And that whole time, nobody said a word?”

  “J–just small talk. Like the weather.”

  “So who sat up front with you and who sat in back?” This is a key question. We may be able to uncover the hierarchy by finding out who was seated where in the car. I’ll compare his response later to what the other four have said. If anyone’s lying, we’ll know. And, we’ll be able to see whom they’re trying to protect.

  “Abu Raja sat up front with me. The others sat in back.”

  From behind me, Bobby speaks up, “Was anyone addressed more formally?”

  “No.”

  This is a dead end for now.

  I glance back at Bobby, who nods at me. “Tell me, my friend, what happened when you got to the house.”

  Abu Gamal hears the translation and nods vigorously. “I p–parked in the driveway,” his words spew out like machine-gun fire, “The others, they went inside the house. I stayed next to my car and smoked cigarettes.”

  “Wait, you never went inside the house?”

  “No.”

  Of course, he was found inside the house, and we have photos from the aerial surveillance asset showing that all five went inside.

  “You don’t know what happened inside the house?”

  “Well…” He hesitates. For the first time he seems a little unsure of himself. “I–I know now.”

  “Okay, what happened?”

  Again, he pauses. His face is still plastered with the I want to please you look that is so transparent now. He’s thinking too much, creating a story.

  His words come quickly again. “After I heard the h–helicopters come, I ran inside the house.”

  “So you were inside the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you lied to me when you said that you were never in the house.”

  “Yes,” he starts, then quickly adds, “but everything else is true.” His head bobs up and down to show how earnest he is now. He’s a terrible actor and a bad liar.

  “It is not respectful to lie to me.”

  Silence.

  I continue, “What happened inside the house?”

  “They told me to go into a room. Abu Raja told us if we got captured, we were to say we were here for a wedding.”

  “A wedding?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where was the groom?”

  “I don’t know,” he replies and bows his head.

  “Where was the bride?”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

  “What, were two men getting married to each other?”

  Both Hadir and Abu Gamal chuckle at that. Abu Gamal simply shakes his head.

  The levity ends when I ask the next question, “Do you know who else was in the house?”

  Abu Gamal listens to the translation and looks at me eagerly.

  “No. I h–heard an explosion. I h–heard shooting. Then American soldiers ran into the r–room and blindfolded me.”

  “Abu Gamal,” I begin, “Are you going to act surprised if I tell you that there were five suicide bombers in the house?”

  Hadir translates. “I didn’t know that.” He tries to act surprised, but overdoes it and looks disingenuous instead.

  I decide to turn up the pressure.

  “Honestly, Abu Gamal, I have to tell you, this is impossible to believe. You are insulting me. I want to help you. I want to get you back to your family. I didn’t come to Iraq to break families apart.”

  Hadir translates. Abu Gamal nods and waits for more.

  I lean into him. We’re within inches of each other now.

  “Obviously, you need to get home to your family. Who’s protecting them right now?”

  Abu Gamal thinks about that and slowly replies, “I guess my son.”

  “You need to get back to your family. I want to get you back to your family. But you can’t treat me like an idiot. You can’t disrespect me with these blatant lies.” I’ve raised my voice now to highlight how frustrated I am with him. “I can’t go to my boss and tell him to help you if you’re going to lie to me over obvious things.”

  “But Mister Matthew, I’m not lying! This is true, I swear it!”

  “You lied to me about going inside the house!”

  “Yes, but everything else…I told you the truth! Everything is the truth!”

  “Your story is not believable!”

  “It is the truth!”

  “Don’t you want to help yourself?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  I’m entreating him now, “Then you’ve got to let me help you.”

  Again with the eager-beaver routine, “I w–want to help. I do, Mister Matthew. I will do all I can to help you.”

  “Then you’ve got to stop lying to me.”

  “I am not lying. This is the truth!”

  “How long have you known
Abu Raja?”

  “I met him one time.”

  “Don’t treat me like an idiot.”

  “Okay. I met him more than once. He is married to my cousin. But everything else I say is truth!”

  It’s a small crack, but it’s a start.

  “That’s two lies now!” I tell him. He feigns shame.

  “What else are you lying about?”

  “Nothing, I swear!”

  If he’s breaking under a little pressure, then it’s time to apply more.

  Voice stern, I give him the Prisoner’s Dilemma, “Look, the other four guys caught with you are being interrogated right now. Whoever starts telling us the truth first will be able to cut a deal. We already know you were in the house—the other guys have told us that. So at least one of them is already talking. You’re wasting time by lying. Help me to help you.”

  Silence. He stares at me hopelessly.

  I decide to use Fear Down. We learned this at Fort Huachuca; it’s a twist on an old-school, straightforward approach. Show him the true consequences and then give him an out and become his savior.

  “My friend, do you know what the penalty is for taking part in suicide bombings?”

  He breaks eye contact and stares at the floor as Hadir translates. When the ’terp finishes, Abu Gamal shakes his head.

  I reach back to the table and grab a photocopy of the new Iraqi penal code in Arabic. I put it in Abu Gamal’s hands, and he looks it over.

  “Read line nine.”

  Abu Gamal reads it aloud. Hadir translates, “Suicide bombings. The punishment for assisting in suicide bombings is death.”

  “Death.”

  Silence fills the room. Abu Gamal’s eyes meet mine.

  He bursts out, “Please. I don’t know anything.”

  “It’s not up to me. I don’t make the law. I’m just telling you the facts. No court will believe you. If you are convicted, you…will…hang.” I let that reality linger.

  His voice rises; he sounds on the edge of desperation, “It’s the truth. I was just a driver! I don’t know anything! There’s nothing I can do about that!”

  “Then you will go before the court, Abu Gamal. One Sunni, one Shia, and one American judge will determine your fate.”

  The news of this makes Abu Gamal rock back in his chair. He sits bolt upright. His face is plaintive and pleading. “I–I want to help you. I’m not lying. I–I was just p–p–paid to drive my cousin’s husband. I–I didn’t know there were suicide bombers in the house!”

  The pressure is getting to him. He’s starting to figure out that the ignorance routine won’t work.

  “That’s not what the others are saying.”

  “I don’t know why!”

  “If one of them starts working with us, we won’t need you. My boss won’t want to cut a deal for information we already have. It will be too late. You will go to Abu Ghraib and stand before the court. Maybe the Sunni judge will believe your story. But the American and Shia judges won’t. You and I both know that.”

  Abu Gamal has no response to this. He looks trapped. Now I turn the old-school approach into a new-school approach. I lean forward and put my hand on Abu Gamal’s knee. I give him a smile.

  “My friend,” I continue, “don’t worry. You and I are going to work together. We are friends now. I want to help you. I want to get you home to your family. I understand how difficult it is to live in Iraq right now. You help me, and I’ll help you.”

  For another five minutes, Bobby and I work this angle, but Abu Gamal goes turtle on us. He refuses to budge off his story. He doesn’t trust us. Hadir starts to fidget. He needs a cigarette. Abu Gamal’s evasive answers have pissed him off. He stands up to stretch his legs and leans against the thin wood wall. To fight off the nicotine withdrawal he chugs the rest of his Coke, then exposes his dull brown teeth with a frustrated smile.

  Hadir points out, “He’s not saying anything new.”

  “Abu Gamal,” my voice is friendly, “I want you to go think about this meeting. I want you to think about your story. I want you to think about what the other guys captured with you are saying right now. If you cooperate, I’ll help you. If not, I won’t go out of my way, and you’ll be on your own at Abu Ghraib. I want to help you get back to your family.”

  Abu Gamal’s eyes go to the floor. He nods. We call for a guard, who cuffs our prisoner, puts a black mask over his head, and takes him back to the cellblock.

  Abu Gamal won the first round. But tomorrow is a new match.

  Ten

  THE SECOND WIFE

  SOMETIMES I THINK of Iraq as a laboratory experiment. The U.S. military came in, shattered the civil order, however brutal, and unleashed chaos instead of imposing order and democracy. As a result, Baghdad in 2006 is a playground for opportunists, thieves, murderers, and fanatics. Caught in the middle are plenty of good people just trying to make a living even as their neighborhoods turn into battlegrounds. Every day, we see the players in this chaos. We see the guilty; we see the blameless. Sorting out one from another is part of our job.

  I spend the rest of the day interviewing a farmer and his brother who allowed Al Qaida to hide weapons on their property in return for cash. They are both dry holes and know nothing except that they were paid a few bucks a month to stash guns and ammunition. For them, and for many who fight us, the battle is only about money, not cause or religion or country. Because the economy is in disarray and most average Iraqis can barely sustain their families, they turn to the insurgency to pay their bills. Once the supply of money dries up or the fighting ends, many, including our farmers, will go back to working their land, unconcerned by who won.

  Frustrated, I return to the ’gator pit and head for my desk. As I sit down, I notice somebody’s put the latest Randyism on the whiteboard.

  Kids wear Superman pajamas. Superman wears Randy pajamas.

  I bang away on the keyboard, writing up summaries of each interrogation. I get to thinking about Abu Gamal again. The only time he showed any real emotion was when we talked about his daughter-in-law and her inability to bear children. Something’s not quite right there; he hasn’t told us the whole story yet. I make a mental note to delve into that further tomorrow.

  Steve comes into the ’gator pit and sits down next to me. He’s an advocate of the new techniques we’re spearheading. No one ever taught us to show compassion to our enemies, but this is a natural extension of a criminal investigator’s practice. At the interrogations schoolhouse at Fort Huachuca, we learned what army approaches are allowed under Geneva Conventions. But here, in country, we’ve learned that these methods serve as a launchpad for our own creativity. Each individual is unique, and each approach we design needs to reflect that. We learn, we adapt, we use our knowledge of our enemies’ culture against them, we show concern for their well-being, we negotiate. Our new methods are smarter, not harsher. Steve is one of the best at the new methods and at improvising on the fly. In less than a month he’s become one of the most respected interrogators in the unit because he gets results.

  “Did you break him?” I ask Steve, who has been interrogating Abu Raja, Abu Gamal’s cousin-in-law. Break is the jargon we use to signify getting a prisoner to open up a little—like cracking an egg.

  “He’s getting there,” Steve says with a smile. “What about your guy?”

  “No, nothing yet,” I reply.

  “Abu Raja’s smart,” Steve says, “but he’s not too smart. He told me he was in charge of the group. I doubt it. I think he’s protecting the bigger fish.”

  That’s a technique we see often when we capture a whole group. The rocks protect the diamonds. It doesn’t tell us much, just that they’ve had some training in counterinter-rogation techniques.

  “Are you ready to be the head honcho when David leaves?” Steve asks me.

  “We’ve got a good team, and that’s all I can ask for,” I say.

  I do some paperwork then abandon my desk and walk over to the Hollywood room. I find D
avid hunkered down in a broken chair in front of the TVs. I’ll be taking over for him as the senior ’gator in just a few days, and he’ll head back Stateside to his family. He’s looking totally exhausted, and I know he’s counting the hours until he can go home. Face drawn, eyes hollow, he’s got himself into this state by working fifteen-hour days since he reached Iraq six months ago.

  “Hey, David, what’s going on?” I ask.

  “I just got my ass chewed by Randy.”

  Randy is a tough SOB. When you deserve it, he’ll praise you and build you up. Many times in our morning meetings, impressed by somebody’s work, he’ll belt out, “Now that’s what I’m fuuucking talking about!” But he can be brutal if he discovers you haven’t done your homework.

  Once one of the younger analysts was supposed to make a few calls to see if one of our detainees was related to another. It slipped his mind, and when Randy asked him about it at the meeting the next morning, the rookie analyst’s mea culpa really set Randy off. He shook his head, neck muscles bulging, and bellowed, “I don’t GET what’s so fuucking HARD about picking UP the goddamned phone and makin’ a phone call! GET IT DONE.”

  The rookie never made that mistake again.

  For all his exhaustion, David is always on the ball. He never lets things slip, and I don’t think Randy’s ever had a problem with him, so this news catches me by surprise.

  “What happened?”

  David stares at the monitors as if he’s in a trance.

  Burnt out, hell, he looks defeated. No, not defeated, disillusioned. That’s even worse.

  “Well, you’re going to need to know this, so I might as well tell you.”

  David has been mentoring me these past few days, trying to get me prepared to be senior interrogator after only three weeks in country. He’s about to deliver one of his pearls of wisdom.

  “I left Mary off the Group of Five interrogations.”

  “I noticed that,” I reply.

  David leans his head back a little but continues to stare at the images on the screens. He’s committed to what we’re doing here. He’s thrown his heart into it. But now he’s beaten down and can only muster a hint of frustration.

  “Well, I was told that Mary will interrogate the top prisoners.”