How to Break a Terrorist

by Matthew Alexander

  Is somebody short-circuiting our chain of command?

  “Isn’t it your job to match ’gators with prisoners?”

  David’s eyes flare with anger. The look disappears, replaced by feigned indifference.

  “It’s not Mary,” he says. “She does fine. But sometimes a woman is not a good fit for a religious guy.”

  This makes sense to me. Detainees can’t pick their interrogator, but sometimes you have to appease them a little to get them to talk. Women bring many advantages to interrogations, but forcing a religious guy to talk to a woman is not going to win him over. This is about getting information, not a conversion.

  “Look,” David continues, “when you take over, don’t get involved in that scene, okay? Be forewarned. You don’t have any control over some things.”

  “Did you tell Randy your thoughts?”

  “He said his hands were tied.”

  I stare at him. In a few days, this headache will be mine.

  David sighs and looks up at the ceiling, “This isn’t new. Just be careful. That’s a fight you can’t win.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, the whiteboard signals David’s political defeat. Mary’s name sits at the top of the list, scheduled to interrogate Abu Bayda and Abu Haydar, two members of the Group of Five. The analysts suspect Abu Bayda could be a high-level Al Qaida leader because of his evident stature and his poise in the interrogation booth.

  In the top right corner of the board, somebody has written, Randy lost his virginity before his father.

  Cliff and Bobby gather around my desk, and together we go over the game plan for this morning. So far none of the Group of Five has given us anything significant, though Steve has rattled Abu Raja. If anyone cracks today, it’ll probably be him.

  A few minutes later, Bobby and I sit back down in the interrogation booth. A guard brings in Abu Gamal, and we exchange pleasantries as we did yesterday. This time, though, I want to get right into things, so I keep the small talk brief.

  “Have you thought about what I said yesterday?”

  Abu Gamal looks tired. He’s got bags under his eyes. His mouth is sagging. He doesn’t seem as alert as he did yesterday.

  “I have.”

  “You know I want to help you, but first we have to trust each other.”

  He doesn’t answer except to shrug.

  “Who are the other men that were caught with you?”

  “I only know Abu Raja.”

  For half an hour, we go over the same ground as yesterday. He won’t budge from his story: he doesn’t know anybody or anything. I change gears.

  “Did you serve in the military?”

  Surprised, he replies, “Yes. I was in the army.”

  “What did you do in the army?”

  “I was an electrician. I worked on military vehicles.”

  “And that’s how you learned so much about electronics?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Everyone in the room senses where I’m going with this. Abu Gamal looks resolute, but he’s unable to hide his anxiety.

  “It takes a lot of intelligence and training to be an electrician in the army.”

  Hadir translate this. Abu Gamal gives an indifferent, “Perhaps.”

  “Come on,” I say, “we both know you’re a very intelligent person. We both know what’s going on here. We both know what you were doing in the house. Why do you continue to disrespect me?”

  “I–I’m s–s–sorry. I don’t mean to disrespect you. I just don’t know anything.”

  “How can we believe that? You are a smart guy, Abu Gamal. You have to be smart to work with electronics. And you’re trying to tell us that an intelligent guy like you thinks anyone would believe the story you told us yesterday. It’s insulting.”

  As Hadir translates, Abu Gamal tries to look genuinely stricken. As he talks, both hands take flight.

  “I didn’t m–mean to insult you. I tell you the truth!”

  “You lied to me,” I say with a disappointed tone.

  “I told you the truth!”

  “I’m trying to help you, can’t you see that?” I’m pleading now. “But first you’ve got to show me that I can trust you.”

  He holds to his story. “I want to help you, but I don’t know anything. I don’t know the other men. I don’t know why we were at the house. I was just a driver.”

  “A driver who happens to be an electrician.”

  He has no response to that.

  I glance back at Bobby and say, “Van Gogh?”

  He nods. “Good idea.”

  Bobby and I have developed into friendly competitors, attempting creative approaches and ruses. Since Bobby’s Zaydan trick, I’ve been behind him on points. Now’s the time to catch up.

  I look back at Abu Gamal. He’s watching both of us intently. Hadir is in the corner, arms locked together. He wants a cigarette so palpably that it almost makes me want to light up.

  I take a deep breath. This one’s going to take some acting.

  “Okay, my friend, I want you to do me one favor.”

  Hadir translates. Abu Gamal looks sincere. “Okay,” he replies. “Anything. Anything, Mister Matthew. I want t–to help.”

  Shades of the obsequious mole from yesterday—I might be able to use that against him.

  “Close your eyes for me. I’ll close mine, too.”

  Abu Gamal looks puzzled but does as I’ve asked. After all, he wants to help.

  “I want you to imagine looking into your wife’s face. You can see your wife’s eyes. Her lips, her mouth, her nose, her hair. She’s listening to you. See the expression on her face? She is happy to see you. She’s smiling. You’ve filled her with joy.”

  I take a quick peek. Abu Gamal’s eyes are closed. He’s concentrating, but he still looks confused.

  Hard and fast, like a verbal blow, I say, “Suddenly, the smile’s gone! It leaves her face! You’re telling her that you’ve been caught in a house with suicide bombers who were on their way to kill women. And children.”

  I pause for effect.

  “You must tell her that you won’t ever come home now, that you won’t be able to support her. Her eyes fill with tears. She’s crying. Her cheeks are wet with tears. Her mouth trembles. She starts to shake. Your words are like daggers stabbing her heart.”

  I learned this approach from a cagey interrogator back at the schoolhouse at Fort Huachuca. He’d used this on his hardest cases at Gitmo, with some success.

  I take a breath and venture another look. Abu Gamal is staring at me, eyes wide. His face is devoid of emotion now.

  Before I can say anything further, Abu Gamal turns to look at Hadir. This is unusual. Throughout both interviews, he’s maintained eye contact with me.

  The two have an exchange. Hadir repeats something. Abu Gamal speaks again, and I can sense a note of surprise in Hadir’s response.

  At length, Hadir turns to me.

  “He doesn’t understand which wife he should be imagining.”

  “He has more than one wife?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Hadir replies, “he has a second wife.”

  Islamic law allows men to marry more than one wife. The catch is that they have to accommodate each one equally. This gets expensive fast and makes polygamy financially out of reach for all but the wealthiest men. Abu Gamal doesn’t strike me as particularly wealthy.

  Why would he hide this? This is significant. I discard Van Gogh and run with it.

  Bobby is tapping his pen like an overrevved metronome. He’s as surprised as I am.

  Say something.

  “What’s your second wife’s name,” I ask.

  “Farah.”

  “How old is she?” It’s the only thing I can think of to ask. I’m buying time, trying to get a handle on what this means.

  Abu Gamal’s façade evaporates. He regards me with weary resignation. “She is twenty-two. I married her three years ago.”

  I’ve got to find a way to exploit this tidbit.

&nb
sp; “That’s quite an age difference,” I say, allowing it to sound like I’m marveling at his you-lucky-dog-you sort of good fortune. Inside, part of me flares with momentary disgust. He could collect Social Security and she’s practically a child bride.

  Hadir translates this and mirrors my tone of voice. Abu Gamal doesn’t look proud.

  “Yes, I know. She couldn’t get married.” A hint of shame breezes across his face. “And I wanted a second wife. It was convenient.”

  My mind is racing. I’m trying to craft the next question. I’m about to ask him why she couldn’t get married. Just as the words reach my tongue. I reel them back. It might offend him, killing the progress we’ve made.

  I switch gears even as my mouth opens, “Uh, why marry a second time, my friend?”

  Maybe she wasn’t a virgin and that’s why nobody wanted her. Asking why she couldn’t get married would have made him reveal that, and he’s already been embarrassed enough.

  Abu Gamal doesn’t want to answer this question. For a moment, his look hardens. But his face dissolves in shame again. He mutters something almost under his breath.

  Hadir nods, translating: “I wanted to have another son.”

  The bloodline. He did this to try and perpetuate his bloodline.

  As I’m digesting this, Bobby asks, “Does she live in the same house with your first wife?”

  Good one. This is a significant question. If she does, that means his first wife approves of her.

  Abu Gamal guffaws. “No. If my second wife lived with us, my first wife would kill me.”

  I can’t help laughing at that. Bobby does too, and Hadir grins as well. The pitfalls of polygamy.

  Even Abu Gamal chuckles, but he clearly meant what he said.

  “I have to put her up in another house. Actually, it is an apartment.”

  He’s just volunteered something for the first time in two sessions. I can feel him moving toward us.

  “Where does she live?” I ask.

  “The apartment’s in Baghdad.”

  “Is the apartment expensive?”

  Abu Gamal shakes his head. “No, it is pretty average.”

  “Is it expensive to have two wives?” This is, of course, a loaded question.

  Abu Gamal listens to Hadir’s translation. I notice he’s starting to fidget. He’s getting antsy, playing with his hands and fingers.

  “M–my s–s–second w–wife,” he begins, stuttering severely, “s–she has all t–these needs and wa–wa–wants. It is because sh–she’s young. Sh–she likes a lot of th–thi–ngs.”

  We’re circling the truth here. I’ve got to empathize with him. Play the role. The doppelgänger takes form.

  “My wife’s the same way,” I say sympathetically.

  He nods his head. I continue, “She always wants more. If I buy her a ruby, she wants an emerald. If I buy her an emerald, she wants a diamond. If I buy her a diamond, it isn’t big enough.”

  Abu Gamal’s eyes light up. He nods vigorously.

  “It’s never enough. She always wants more, bigger and better.”

  He nods again. He’s stopped fidgeting, and he looks me directly in the eyes. I see hurt behind his. I see a man of good intentions whose been trapped by a bad decision. He’s seeking understanding, and I’ve given that to him. He’s grateful.

  “Yes…yes…I know it as well, Mister Matthew. My second wife…she loves expensive cosmetics.”

  “Oh yes, mine as well,” I tell him.

  Abu Gamal volunteers something else, “Cosmetics, yes, yes. My second wife loves them. The more expensive the better.” He pauses, then adds, “And blue jeans. She loves blue jeans as well. Expensive clothes, and jewelry. She is difficult to please.”

  I nod my head sympathetically. He finishes with a sigh, “She’s very expensive.”

  We’re still circling the truth. I push forward.

  “Tell me, my friend, it must be very tough on you since your electronics shop isn’t doing well.”

  Abu Gamal goes rigid. With deliberation, he nods his head once. He spears me with his eyes. They don’t move from mine as he responds, “Yes, it is. That is why I took this job driving for Abu Raja.”

  And there it is. Everyone in the booth recognizes it, like a lightbulb just went on over each of us. Abu Gamal has just given us his motive for joining Al Qaida.

  Money. He’s in it for the money.

  I study him. He’s still rigid. But I can see in his eyes he knows what he’s just said. He knows exactly what he’s given us. He’s confessed without confessing. He’s taken the first step toward us and is gauging our reaction.

  It all makes sense now. His shop is circling the drain. His cash-flow situation is getting desperate. His second wife’s demand for luxury is insatiable, even in the midst of a war. He cannot continue this lifestyle, yet Islamic law forces him to try.

  Then along comes his cousin’s husband, Abu Raja, with an offer to make money on the side.

  I decide to keep playing the empathy card.

  “My friend, I can understand that. It is really hard for Iraqis to make money right now. The American government…well…we’ve made many mistakes that have caused the economy to be very bad.”

  Abu Gamal listens to this and reacts with surprise. He nods lightly in approval. He didn’t think an American would criticize his own country.

  “Sunnis have lost all their government jobs. The army was disbanded. There is no law and order. It is very difficult to find work.”

  “It has been very difficult for us, Mister Matthew.”

  “And the Shia militias have attacked Sunni neighborhoods and executed many innocent people.”

  This doesn’t have much of an effect on Abu Gamal. He nods without emotion.

  He doesn’t care about the Sunni-Shia fighting. It isn’t a motivator for him. It’s all about the money. Cash is the key to him.

  “Regular Sunnis like you are having a hard time. I can see why you’d take this job.”

  “I must provide for my family,” he says slowly.

  “Yes. That is the most important thing. That’s what the Koran says. A man should take care of his family. Nobody would respect you if you didn’t care for your family first.”

  Abu Gamal agrees, and adds, “My first obligation is to my family. That is true.”

  “My friend, what if you could make some money to help out your family?”

  Abu Gamal appears interested, but he is still very cautious. “I just want to help.”

  I don’t know if this is a neutral reply or if he is pulling back into his shell.

  “We can help you with your financial needs. But you have to do something for me.”

  His expression goes blank.

  Shit, he’s going turtle.

  “I’m not going to give you something for nothing. I need to know that you are my friend, that you’re willing to negotiate in good faith.”

  He listens, but offers nothing.

  Here it goes.

  “And the way to negotiate with me in good faith is to tell me about the men you were with. Who are they? What do they do?”

  His blank expression solidifies. He’s retrenching.

  “Mister Matthew,” he says, hands out now, trying to look totally genuine, “If I could tell you, I would. But I do not know who they are. I only know Abu Raja.”

  Now I see fear on his face and I realize that he’s afraid of the other four. So he must know or sense how powerful they are. He’s still lying.

  “I can’t help you if you don’t trust me. I need something to take to my boss that will show him that you are trustworthy, something that shows you want to help us.”

  “Wallah mawf” (I don’t know).

  He’s back in his shell, and there’s no time to try and coax him out again. We still have two more interrogations today.

  “Okay, my friend. I understand. I’m trying to help you, but you won’t let me. I’m offering you an opportunity to help your family. But you’ve got to meet me
halfway. You can think about this in your cell. I’ll see you again tomorrow. Put on your mask.”

  “I’m sorry.” I sense dejection in his voice, like he knows he’s doomed no matter what he does.

  He picks up the black mask and puts it over his head. A moment later, a guard comes to take him back to his cell.

  I look over at Bobby, and we have the same thought. There’s $10,000 in cash sitting in our evidence locker. We can use it as bait.

  Eleven

  A LIFE FOR REDEMPTION

  THE ’GATOR PIT is humming. Interrogators are prepping for their next sessions, huddled with analysts, or talking strategy. The place is never quiet before the first round of interrogations starts. We run two shifts a day and share desks in the small space. Our SF strike teams work day and night to run down the leads we give them. Their helicopters come and go constantly. The process never ends.

  I sit at my desk and contemplate the pile of money in front of me. I’ve checked out the $10,000 we confiscated in an earlier raid. If I lose it or if it disappears, I will owe ten grand to Uncle Sam.

  Today, I’m fishing for Abu Gamal’s true motives, and the cash is bait. We know something about what makes him tick. I plan to test him.

  When he takes his mask off, I will pull the money out and toss it on the table Bobby uses to take notes. Ten grand. That’s a fortune here, especially for a guy like Abu Gamal. I’m not authorized to give it to him. But I can strongly suggest the stack of bills could be his if only he’d cooperate.

  He’ll want it.

  Or will he?

  I think back to a dusty Saudi road I was on a few years ago. I had a backpack slung over my shoulder and a 9mm pistol close at hand. In the backpack was $1 million in cash—payment to a Saudi contractor for work done on behalf of the U.S. Air Force. We were on the way to a bank in Tabuk; there was nobody around for miles except for the contracting sergeant, a retired Saudi colonel, and myself all packed into the colonel’s car.

  On that deserted stretch of highway, I had a passing thought. With $1 million, I could park myself on a beach somewhere and spend the rest of my life riding the waves, at one with the surf. Two shots, a quick drive to the Jordanian border, and I’d have been gone forever.