But I didn’t do it. Why not? I’m no murderer. And money doesn’t motivate me. But it motivates Abu Gamal. He’ll break as soon as he thinks he can pocket these bills.
I flip through the stack. One hundred $100 bills. They’re old and worn, not like the fresh-from-the-mint bundles of cash you see in mob movies. These greenbacks have seen a lot of shady deals.
Why does money motivate Abu Gamal? He’s trying to run two households.
I drop the cash down on my desk. I lean forward. My chair squeaks. I cross my arms on my desk and sink my chin onto one wrist. The cash is at eye level now. It is bound by an old, grimy rubber band.
Why does he have that burden? He wanted a male heir.
He married Farah to give him another son, despite the fact that he’s on the far side of middle age. At sixty, how could he be a father to his young son? By the time the boy came of age, Abu Gamal would be in his late seventies if he survived that long.
For some, the idea of a teenage bride and a fifty-something groom is just disgusting. When he told us her age and how long they’d been married, I admit I felt a small twinge of repulsion. But doing criminal investigations for the air force had already brought me in contact with the most sordid things imaginable. I once worked an abuse case in which an airman had tortured his infant daughter. Afterwards, he stuffed her in a freezer and closed the door for thirty minutes. I’ll never forget having to photograph the latticework bruises on her back that matched the grill shelves in the freezer.
Compared to stuff like that, so what if Abu Gamal had a child bride?
Child bride. He wanted an heir. He wanted his family name to endure. He wanted to preserve his bloodline.
Maybe this wasn’t about money after all. We must always distinguish means from ends: This is about his heritage. His family. His pride.
Will this stack of bills work on him? Perhaps. But it’s his pride that hangs in the balance, not his savings account.
Behind me, two ’gators kick up a conversation about Iraqi law.
When I brought up the idea of making money from us, Abu Gamal was decidedly noncommittal. He certainly didn’t jump at the chance. He didn’t see it as a lifeline. Why would actually seeing a bundle of Benjamins induce a different reaction?
The two ’gators continue their discussion. It is loud, and I can’t help but overhear parts of it. I try to force their conversation out of my mind. I have to think. I’ve got to find a way to get inside Abu Gamal’s head. Time is short.
We still haven’t parsed the connections within the Group of Five. Abu Raja claims to be the leader and has a connection to Abu Gamal. Because Abu Bayda is the oldest and most distinguished, we’ve tentatively pegged him as the leader. Abu Haydar is the fourth member, and from what I’ve seen, his mind is like a whippet: fast, sharp, and agile. He’s certainly the most cunning of the group.
Why was Abu Gamal so reluctant to tell us about his second wife?
Because he was ashamed. Ashamed by her age? Ashamed by how she’s forced him to earn extra money to afford to keep her well stocked in petty luxury items?
Or is it that he feels trapped?
His second wife is spending him into insolvency just as his store is on the brink of failure. His first wife hates Farah. His son cannot give him grandchildren. Farah was his only hope, and instead of producing another son, she’s become a terrible burden.
To keep from drowning he turned to Al Qaida for a quick fix to his cash-flow problems. He’s not particularly religious. He doesn’t seem to have many political convictions. He doesn’t hate Shias. He’s with Al Qaida simply because there’s no other way for him to stay afloat.
How do you trap a man who has already trapped himself? By setting him free.
I wonder how he will react if I offer him exit visas for his entire family. They could start over somewhere else, a new beginning in the sunset of his own life. Would that appeal to him? How proud is he of being an Iraqi? Would he leave his native land?
The two ’gators discussing Iraqi law crank their volume up a notch. Their voices are intrusive and threaten to derail my train of thought. I can’t help but listen in.
“How many wives are you allowed under Iraqi law?” I hear one of the ’gators ask the other.
“Four at a time. If you want a fifth, you have to divorce one of your other wives first.”
Divorce.
That’s Abu Gamal’s get-out-of-jail-free card.
Suddenly, I remember an article in an English version of an Iraqi newspaper that announced some reforms to Iraqi divorce law. The new Parliament had changed the laws to make it easier to get one.
I sit up, pull my desktop computer’s keyboard forward, and type in a quick Google search for Iraqi divorce petitions.
In a few minutes, I’ve found a Jordanian divorce petition. I save it to my hard drive and print it out. I’m going to need help to pull this off. I pay a visit to one of our interpreters, a Jordanian who emigrated to the United States back in the nineties. Balding, round-faced, and in his mid-sixties, he is one of the most cheerful people I’ve ever met.
When I reach his workspace, he looks up at me and flashes a huge grin. “Matt–ew, Matt–ew,” he says. He sounds like a mafia don gone Bedouin. “You haf sometin’ for me?”
I hand him the divorce petition and explain what I want to do. He beams and says, “I hafta tell yuu, Matt–ew, dis is somethin’!”
He reads through the divorce petition, then turns to his computer. In a few minutes, he’s typed it up in Arabic. One more finger to his keyboard, and the printer hums again.
“Thank you Martin.”
“I hope dis works, Matt–ew.”
Our task force has its own psychological operations unit, composed of four army NCOs. I head over to their shanty, and when I enter, the clutter nearly overwhelms me. Half finished projects litter every table top amid digital printers, printing presses, rolls of posters, and cutting boards. The place looks like a cross between Kinko’s and a counterfeiter’s lair. These guys could make a fortune if they went underground back home. Their forgeries are masterful—nearly imperceptible.
The senior NCO is a clean-cut Midwestern towhead. As with everything else in this office, his appearance is deceiving. He’s the cleverest forger we have.
I ask him to affix an official Ministry of the Interior seal on my doctored divorce petition. No problem. In a few minutes, I have a document that looks like it just came from the MOI itself.
I go find Mustafa, our Iraqi-turned-American entrepreneur. Years ago, he fled Iraq and settled in Detroit, where he opened a chain of retail stores. Here, he is an interpreter. Light-skinned, he is a Shia from southern Iraq who returned to help rebuild his country after the 2003 invasion. He and I have had talks about Islam, and when he went home on leave, he returned with two massive Shia versions of the Koran and gave them to me. Each one was the size of a Manhattan phone book. I couldn’t believe he’d hauled them all the way from Detroit just for me.
“Mustafa, can you look at this for me and tell me if it looks real?”
He takes it and grabs a chair. Slowly he reads through it, then looks it over again.
“It is very good, but you have the wrong ministry’s seal on it.”
“What?”
“Divorces are handled through the Ministry of Justice. He’ll know that and spot this as a fake.”
“I just read in the paper that the MOI is responsible now.”
“No. Divorces go through the Ministry of Justice.”
What do I do?
Mustafa has never steered me wrong. Yet the newspaper is clear. If I blow this, Abu Gamal will see through my ruse and he’ll never trust me. We won’t get anything out of him at all.
It has to be right. I don’t have time to do any more research. I’ve got to make a choice: the paper, or Mustafa.
Maybe the news is right. But the change is so recent, most Iraqis won’t even know about it yet. Mustafa’s right. He’ll suspect something if he sees the MO
I seal.
I get another copy of the petition, have the psy-op guys doctor it with the Ministry of Justice seal, and present it to Mustafa again for his scrutiny. He gives it a thumbs-up.
I’m ready to play the game. Just before we go into the booth, I explain my plan to Bobby. He smiles and shakes his head. He knows if this works, I’ll catch him on points and he’ll have to top me again.
A few minutes later, we’re face-to-face with Abu Gamal.
“My friend, how are you today?”
“Hamdulilah.” I am fine.
“Are you getting enough to eat?”
“Yes, I have plenty of food to eat.”
I can’t contain it any longer. My mouth twists upward into a huge grin. For a heartbeat, I just sit there smiling. He looks quizzically at me, but says nothing.
“I have some really good news for you today.”
“What is that, Mister Matthew?”
“My friend,” I begin as I pull out the divorce petition, “I am about to make you the happiest man in the world.”
He looks at the piece of paper, but can’t see what it says.
“I’m going to make you happier than the king of Saudi Arabia!”
Hadir breaks out laughing as he translates. Abu Gamal laughs as well. This is the lightest atmosphere we’ve had with him in the booth. It is a good start.
I hand him the divorce document. Intrigued, he takes it cautiously. Within seconds, he’s totally absorbed in reading it. His brow knits. His eyes focus. I’ve never seen him so intense.
A minute passes. He’s still nose-down in the document. A flutter of worry tickles my stomach.
What if he detects it is a forgery? We’ll lose any chance with him.
This ruse is a gamble, no doubt about it. I’ve thrown the dice for this one.
I remain absolutely confident, my smile plastered on my face. I have become the doppelgänger again, the hard-pressed family man with a covetous wife.
Two minutes pass. He flips the paper over and scans the reverse side.
A butterfly kisses my stomach. Then another. I try to ignore them and remain in character, confident, happy. I will give him no clue, not with my actions or body language.
Three minutes now. Abu Gamal gives no hint of what’s going on behind those pinpoint eyes of his. His face is frozen in concentration. He rereads the front side again, this time using a finger to mark his place as he goes. His lips quiver as though he wants to read this aloud to himself.
Four minutes go by. He’s reexamining the Ministry of Justice seal.
I’ve thrown the dice. There’s nothing I can do now.
Five minutes. Abu Gamal lowers the document. He turns his face to me. It is one big crooked-toothed grin.
“Does this mean I can get a divorce from my second wife?”
I share his smile. Now I’m not acting, I’m elated. The ruse has worked.
“That’s exactly what it means,” I tell him.
“Allah bless you, Mister Matthew.”
“Thank you my friend. We have Iraqi lawyers working here. They’ll help you file it and take care of the divorce at no cost to you.”
“Thank you, Mister Matthew. Thank you.” His face is totally genuine now. The obsequious mole is long gone, crushed by the weight of this gesture.
“Can I fill this out now?” Here sits his path to liberation, and every second is an interminable delay for him.
“Sure. Of course. We can start doing that.”
I hand him a pen. He takes it but remains seated. He hesitates for a moment, then locks eyes with me.
“Mister Matthew, may I write a letter to my wife as well?”
“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll go get some drinks.”
“Thank you, Mister Matthew. Allah bless you.”
I walk out through the ’gator pit and grab three Cokes. A few minutes later I return.
“How’s it coming?”
Abu Gamal is lost in thought, a few lines of his letter scrawled on the paper in front of him. He jots down a few more sentences, then hands it to Hadir.
“Okay, why don’t we take these over to the Iraqi lawyer and get this filed today. Hadir, why don’t you come with me.”
Bobby stays behind with Abu Gamal.
Hadir and I step outside. “What’s the letter say?” I ask. I wonder how harsh he’ll be on Farah. Has he explained why he’s leaving her?
Hadir looks it over. Without comment, he begins to translate.
My Loving Wife,
You will always be the first star in the night sky, my love. I think of you now, and the memory of your face sustains me.
I am so sorry for everything that I have done. I love you, and always have. You must know that I have been captured.
You have always loved me without reservations, even when I hurt you. I want you to know that I am divorcing Farah. Please, take our son, take all the money, and leave Iraq. Start fresh someplace safe, and remember me. Remember the best times, and forgive me for my mistakes. I beg of you to forgive me.
I would endure ten thousand lashes just to see your face again.
Hadir and I share a shocked moment of silence. He’s written a love letter to his first wife, not a breakup one to his second. He’s using his one chance to communicate outside this prison to set things right, not to justify his desire for divorce. It is hard not to be touched.
But we still have work to do. I leave the divorce petition and the letter on my desk. Hadir and I return to the booth and sit down. Now comes the payoff—we hope.
“Look, my friend. I’ve done this for you because I think you are a decent person. I understand why people are doing the things they are in Iraq. You don’t have many choices.”
Abut Gamal shakes his head sadly. “No, we do not.”
“You have to support your family. I’m a family man, too and know I’d do the same thing. I’m not here to judge you.”
Abu Gamal agrees with me, “Family is important.”
“I’ve done something for you. Now I need you to do something for me.”
“Inshallah.”
“All I’m asking you to do is tell me the obvious. Tell me the things we already know.”
Abu Gamal replies with a curt nod. I just want him to start talking, start telling me the truth of what happened at the farmhouse.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes I am ready.”
“Tell me why you were at the farmhouse.”
Without the slightest hesitation, Abu Gamal replies, “I was there to make the suicide vests.”
His confession carries no emotion.
He’s the bomb maker.
“Did you make all of them?”
No hesitation, “Yes I did.”
Inside, I’m jubilant. Outside, I’m calm and matter-of-fact. Nothing fazes me.
How much can we get? How far will he go?
“Why were the other people at the house?”
He shakes his head, “I don’t know. I really don’t.”
Is he still protecting the others? If so, why? His confession is more than enough to send him to the hangman’s noose.
“But you made the vests?”
“Yes.”
“Did you bring the explosives?”
“No, they were already at the house.” He pauses after that revelation. I can see he’s thinking, trying to decide how far he wants to go.
In for a dollar….
“I wired the vests. That is my job.”
Electrician in the army, stereo salesman as a civilian, he’s turned to bomb-making to earn a living in wartime.
“My friend, have you made other vests?”
He waves a hand. It is almost a dismissive gesture. “Yes. I’ve made many.”
“Have you made other things besides vests?”
He looks down at the floor, takes a breath and replies, “Yes. I’ve made roadside bombs as well.”
“What about car bombs?” I ask.
“No. I did not work on those. I work
ed on the wiring for the roadside bombs. Sometimes, I would build in a transistor or a unique detonator system.”
“What did you use for that?”
“Garage door openers, stereo remote controls, and cell phones. I never worked with the explosives. Just the wiring.”
“How many bombs have you built?”
His face is dead as he answers, “Hundreds.”
“Hundreds?”
“Yes. Hundreds.”
That could be over a thousand victims. Americans and Iraqis. He’s a mass murderer.
“How much do you get for this work?”
“Fifty dollars per job.”
Thousands dead so his wife could wear lipstick, blue jeans, and bling.
“I can understand that. You needed the money.”
“Yes, I have…had…two wives to support. I want you to know Mister Matthew, I did not plant the bombs. I just built them.”
“I understand. If you didn’t build them, then someone else would have.”
“Yes, Mister Matthew. I just helped make them.”
“I understand.” I nod very slightly. I’m very careful with my nonverbal cues. I want my sympathy to seem genuine.
“So you went to the farmhouse to wire the suicide vests.”
“Yes.”
We’ve got to get him talking about the Group of Five. I want to see how far this break will take us.
“Abu Gamal, how long have you known Abu Raja?”
His right hand comes up to his chin. He’s deliberating.
“I have not known him that long.”
Damn. I thought he’d tell us something new.
“But you’ve done all these vests,” I interject.
He remains silent. Behind his eyes I see a new emotion. Defeat. Abu Gamal knows what he’s just done. He’s given up his own life. That was his only asset in this negotiation. He’s confessed, and he knows he will hang now. But his desire to honor our deal as well as his sense of obligation to his wife, his true love, propels him to continue giving us information.
“Who else were you working with?”
“I would get assignments, but I would not know the people.”
Usually, by this time Hadir is in dire need of a smoke. This afternoon, he’s riveted.
“Where would you go to do the work?”
“Different places. I can’t remember.”
How to Break a Terrorist Page 10